Third Chance
by Inconspicuous Acuity
Summary: KotOR 1. One version of her succeeded in saving the galaxy, the other failed to conquer it. In both cases, the fate of everything and everyone was in her hands. How will the third version deal with the same responsibility?
1. Author's Notes

**AUTHOR'S NOTES**

_This fic is written at the request of Arix Despana and BrynnDharielle, two of the readers of my other stories here. For others who may stumble upon it, there are a few major things that you should be warned of, to save you from reading something you wouldn't like, if that is the case._

_Right. This here pre-story bit is written with that purpose precisely, to let you decide whether you want to read it or not. In my head, it saves you the time you'd take with a few chapters to realize what it is I'm actually doing._

_And, of course, have to start with..._

_**Disclaimer:** _

_I, the author of this fic, own nothing of the Star Wars universe; I am only taking the freedom to alter some of its original and already existing aspects to my liking... and hopefully to that of others. Star Wars is firstly the property and trademark of George Lucas and then a courtesy of all the others that helped him and contributed over time. For that, we all thank them._

_**Things to Know:**_

_Firstly, do not expect me to be a writing machine and produce chapters every day or every other day. It's commendable that some of you have the ability to do so, but I don't. Aside from the fact that I have studies and a part-time job to take care of without being a sleep-deprived coffee addict (though I wish I was), I need time to think the chapters through properly and make them into something I can be proud of. Unfortunately, if I don't write when I am in the mood to do so, it won't be the same. I can do it well enough when I'm in a hurry, but it can be even better if I wait and think it through. It's either quality or speed._

_Secondly, I claim to be attempting a novelization of KotOR, not my random imagining of what it could have been. That's why there will probably be a great number of long chapters and a very detailed view of the original storyline as the basis for whatever I add to it. I don't care that you already know the plot and dialogue, I will still go through the proper steps; my intent isn't to modify these, but to give them the depth that a semi-alert game lacks. That means there will be no major and surreal modifications, only adding of proper information and parts. Besides, though you know what's going on, remember that the character doesn't and is supposed to be finding out._

_I do understand the differences between a game and a story, though, and I promise at least this one thing – I will expand it to a great number of other POVs than Revan's. Though I won't be removing what's already there to near extinction, I will be adding a lot of other things. There will probably be thick social and philosophical nuances involved as well. Furthermore, the game has to hand you a pretty linear character, so that everyone can adapt it to their own liking. As more or less of a book character, my Revan will have her own complex personality and beliefs, her own qualities and faults and her own reactions and evolution. That means her replies and reactions won't be as short and general as they are in the game._

_Last but not least, I have a small issue with the beginning. Traditional scrolling text says "In the skies above the Outer Rim world of Taris, a Jedi battle fleet engages the forces of Darth Malak in a desperate effort to halt the Sith's galactic domination...". I don't know what you make of it, but to me it suggests that both fleets willingly engaged into one final confrontation to tip the balance._

_But as you emerge into the game world, you are, more or less, told that the Sith ambushed the Endar Spire, which was bringing Bastila there toward some mission that is never mentioned again. Also, you are told it happened so suddenly that Bastila couldn't use her Battle Meditation; I find that unlikely, having in mind they boarded the ship, fought a whole load of soldiers, PC had enough time to wake up and talk to Trask, and all that. I preferred to stick to the 'final confrontation' idea and that brought some very small changes about._

_I am conscious that I can learn from any of you, so if you have something to say don't shy out of it. If I don't like what you're telling me, I won't snap and call you close-minded; I'll merely understand that you and I have different perspectives. And I'll probably consider it and try to see your point._

_That's about everything. So far, I've gotten pretty positive comments on my other stories, so I hope this won't disappoint too many. The general idea was the same for those. It's probably not the thing for a complete non-conformist, but more rather the perfect story for one who wants to relive the game experience in more detail than a game could offer. Of course, you'll have to be content with whatever main character I produce._

_I hope there will be some among you who enjoy reading it; as I do writing._

_Kyle_


	2. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

The age of the galaxy was as unknown and inestimable as its actual limits, but nowhere did this realization hit one as hard as it did while in hyperspace, on a ship. To feel the vibrations of the hull as you were carried along with it at tremendous speeds, to look out the porthole and witness the spectacle of a thousand dots of light pulsing by you in the blink of an eye. It all made one feel so small and insignificant.

No matter if they were a Jedi. No matter if they were the hope of the Order and the Republic alike, the best single card to be played in this vast, but so real a game called war. No matter if they were Bastila Shan.

Upon departure, the young woman had felt as important as everyone told her she was. But now, in the open space, it did not seem like it really mattered anymore; there were things over which not even she had power, things that no one, no matter how special, could help.

The multitude of stars reminded Bastila of how many questions had been left unanswered. For an example, no one really knew how Malak had managed to assemble a force of that magnitude in so short a period of time. After the defeat of Revan, Dark Lord of the Sith, many had thought the threat was over; and here was Revan's apprentice, returning with a fleet and an army at least twice as big as that of his old master.

Still, the answer to that question lay, possibly, close enough. Bastila knew that, and also how torture would possibly reveal that answer to them, along with so much more information that could prove vital. Of course, Jedi didn't torture; the Council had dismissed the possibility before anyone had even begun to voice it out loud. It made one doubt the wisdom of their decisions; though that was what Revan and Malak had done, and all knew how far they had fallen.

And Bastila did not have time for such doubtful thoughts when so many lives were in stake. The battle that was to begin once they dropped out of hyperspace would decide, perhaps, the fate of the entire galaxy, of everything that lived and of all that didn't alike. It was a desperate effort in desperate times. Her Battle Meditation was needed more than ever.

Thorough preparation was required in order to reach the full efficiency of the ability she possessed and at the moment Bastila felt unable to provide. One could not hope to calm and guide others when one had no such inner peace of their own, when turmoil ruled their bond with the Force.

Bastila's distress came from worries and fear that they would pay the price of failure very soon, that the Sith were too powerful. The young Jedi did not even want to acknowledge that she would do any less than perfect; besides, Jedi were supposed to detach from emotion. And the more she pushed the nagging doubts away, the more they came back in on subtler paths and bothered her.

She sat there on her knees and could not render herself oblivious to the cold floor of her bedroom, to the various sensations it spread through her body, all things that any average Jedi should be able to easily ignore. She gritted her teeth with furious determination and tried again, her lids pressed so tightly against the eyes that she feared she might burst a vein. The effort of every muscle in her body went into the attempt of emptying her mind and she almost felt herself shaking under such strain.

This was silly; it was no way for a Jedi to do things. A deep breath brought Bastila some amount of relief, when she allowed her muscles to finally relax again. Another breath – the pressure on her eyes was released, though they still remained closed, and her teeth unclenched. A third – blood stopped boiling inside of her and her temperature came to an agreement with that of the floor.

From the beginning.

_There is no emotion; there is peace..._

* * *

Despite the humming of plugged terminals and the pilot and technicians' fingers continually pressing buttons and flipping switches, despite the occasional beeps of the local utility droid, the bridge was such a quiet place. At least for a man who was used to the frenzied clamor of battle, to the sounds of sustained blaster fire and grenades being flung about, and to the screams of soldiers and civilians who were dying. Carth Onasi was such a man.

A decorated war veteran, the experienced soldier had served the Republic through the greatest part of the Mandalorian Wars, now the Jedi Civil War as well, and was still there. Of course, he had ascended from his former position of a simple recruit and it was now his task to oversee the Endar Spire's crew. But station had nothing to do with why he was still fighting after all those years; the true reason was far more personal.

Sighing, he returned to the terminal in front of him and concentrated on its display of data; he was skimming through the records that described his crew's abilities for one last time, trying to form an idea of how he should best use them in the approaching crucial battle. There weren't many of them; though it was leading the attack, the Endar Spire was a relatively small ship whose primary function was transport. Its combat capacities had been nearly neglected – it only possessed a pair of twin turrets, one on each side, and a couple of small interceptors to fend off fighter ships more efficiently. Nothing adequate for a battle with something bigger.

The Republic didn't have much left to throw into the war – Revan and Malak had departed with its best ships and most capable men, then turned them against their former allies. But whatever it still had to spare without leaving the important worlds completely defenseless, it had dispensed. Even a few of the older models that still functioned were there, for whatever that could accomplish. Many of those were more suited for combat than the Endar Spire anyway; the latter's true role was to carry the Jedi and offer a place from where Bastila Shan could efficiently make use of her Battle Meditation.

Aside from Carth and the Jedi passengers, the ship had been granted its own complete team of technicians with their astromech droids, two additional pilots to fly the interceptors, a small troupe of soldiers for the turrets and other means of internal defense, as well as a few sentry droids. And they'd also had a last minute addition who was supposedly a scout, though her skills hadn't been needed so far and she had been taking the normal shifts of a soldier.

It was her record that Carth was studying, to try and find her some suitable post, when he suddenly caught his breath. He hadn't been reading word by word, but this time he began to do so. It was amazing – the woman had been to places he had never even heard of and could speak a number of alien languages that would rival the skills of any average protocol droid.

Shaking off the surprise, Carth memorized the name, Morgana Ondare, and the ID number. Then, he pressed a small side button and watched a holoprojector unwind above the terminal. The blue, pulsing hologram of a man formed slowly in front of Carth. He knew the soldier somewhat – Trask Ulgo was one of the most promising recruits, who had proven his worth in the latest battles. It looked like he was the one currently on duty in the crew quarters.

Carth noted his tenseness as he stood straight and still in the usual official manner. "At ease, soldier," he said with a small smile.

Trask relaxed a little. "What can I do for you, Sir?" came the filtered voice through the terminal's comm, while the projection's lips moved.

"I need to speak to a crew member," Carth explained. "The ID is 792-81-13 and the name Morgana Ondare."

Trask's face lit up with recognition for a moment."That's my bunk mate here on the Endar Spire, Sir. We work opposite shifts and I haven't seen her at all, but I know the name."

"I see," said Carth. "That would mean her shift ended recently and she's sleeping?"

"Yes, Sir," nodded Trask. "I can send someone to wake her up and direct her to you."

"No," Carth shook his head. "That won't be necessary."

He exchanged the formalities to end the conversation absent-mindedly, his eyes once more focused on the display and the long list of skills. He needed to speak to this scout prior to the battle's start and try to determine why the Jedi themselves had requested her so urgently right before their departure. Making a mental note, he finally let the matter go for the time being and moved on to the next record. The final aspects of the plan were already beginning to form in his mind, with every resource and man used in its proper place. He needed to discuss them with Bastila and her Jedi once all was fully shaped.

* * *

Unaware of all the attention she was getting elsewhere, Morgana Ondare had stripped herself of all but a clean set of underwear and was now lying, stomach down, on her bunk. She had the room and its artificial warmth all to herself and could do whatever she wished with her spare time, though normally she was supposed to sleep. She was going to rest, but not right away; for now, she was absorbed in... some sort of present moment.

_When the blaster fire ceased to come forth into being deflected with ease by the Jedi's lightsaber, the uninvolved third party, Doren, dared to peek from behind the supply crate. She saw the two authentic Sith troopers on the floor, smoke emanating from the tiny cracks between the plies and different parts of their sophisticated armor. Between them, the bounty hunter who had recently revealed himself by taking off the helm of an identical set was still standing there, unscathed. His blaster was at the ready, but he stared straight ahead and knew better than to use it, the way his two allies had just done._

_In front of him, another man stood tall and straight; this one wore the robes of the Jedi and he held an activated lightsaber of a bright blue color with both hands. His focus was perfect, that much was certain now, though he looked calm and his eyes were clouded by thought, as if he were lost far away. When he noticed the green-skinned twi'lek who watched from behind the pile of containers, he nodded once and smiled reassuringly._

_She allowed herself to be mesmerized for a moment – Force wielders just had that something special about them. But then she glanced back to the Jedi's adversary worriedly, not liking the man's smug expression in the least. He didn't have the look of one who was admitting defeat, but much rather of one whose game had been made as expected._

"_Did you think I was this stupid, Jedi?" asked the bounty hunter, lowering the blaster. Then, he shook his head and gave a small laugh. "They don't want you dead; and all I really promised was I'd bring you here alive."_

"_Do you really think the Sith will appreciate your display of intelligence?" asked the calm man he was facing. "They don't pay those that help; they kill them."_

_The bounty hunter pretended not to hear that, probably because, though not always true, it was a likely possibility. "One," he uttered defiantly, then took a prolonged break. "Two." Another break._

_The Jedi frowned._

"_And three, my lucky number," the bounty hunter finished, as he casually whirled the blaster pistol around his finger and then snapped it back in the sheath at his belt._

_The next moment, the room's only door glided open; the twi'lek girl had the sense to hide back quickly. She heard the loud noise of lightsabers being crossed and of boots dancing on the floor, as the Jedi met what was probably a Sith in combat. Then, a blaster shot and something heavy collapsing on the floor._

"_Very strong stun ray," explained the impassive bounty hunter. "I told you I was a professional."_

"_Carry him to my ship," the reply arrived a few seconds late, in a darkly lowered tone._

"_Sure," snickered the hunter. "One more thing – there's some twi'lek hiding behind those crates. I think she knows him."_

_Doren gasped – she was caught!"_

"End of Chapter Twelve," mumbled the pleased Morgana and pressed another button on the keyboard of her portable electronic journal. Reading the display, she estimated that the current datapad still had enough room for about three chapters, then deactivated the whole device and rose to put it away in her locker.

Writing stories about Jedi and Sith, though she didn't know any more about them than the rest of the galaxy, was an eccentricity of hers that Morgana would never confess to anyone. The subject of the Force, or people who could control it, who had come to understand it to a higher degree than others, fascinated her. And her biggest dilemma was if there had ever existed a Jedi that fell to the dark side without being seduced by it. A Jedi that fell because it was needed, in order for a greater cause to succeed; a cause of the Jedi, not the Sith. One that fell so that millions could be saved.

Somewhere, deep inside her, Morgana Ondare knew that there had been – there must have been – a Jedi like that.

"Right," she forced her mind off the subject. "Enough for today – time to sleep."

She returned to her bunk and curled up on it; a blanket wouldn't be required, it was almost too hot on the ship. She eyed the other bed, wondering who she was supposed to be sharing the room with. She had seen their belongings and other signs that this person, her bunk mate, existed, but other than that she knew nothing. Besides, she couldn't find much peace since she had been told that there were Jedi on the ship.

Thoughts invaded her mind again and she allowed them to carry her away. When it arrived, sleep caught her unaware.

* * *

A broad grin was plastered to the thin lips of Darth Bandon when the projected image of his master in actual size faded in the blink of an eye. Caressing the metal hilt of the lightsaber hanging from his girdle absent-mindedly, the Sith turned and exited the room.

The search for his assigned subordinate, Commander Rhel, did not take long, since the man was supposed to be on the bridge at all times, sleeping as little as possible. When Darth Bandon's slim dark-robed figure appeared in the door frame, the back of every man on the bridge straightened and they all began to do their jobs with far more dedication.

"Commander," uttered Darth Bandon with a frightfully dark clarity, as he stopped midway and motioned the addressee to him.

Rhel, a middle-aged man wearing the decorated uniform that displayed his rank, hurried to obey. "Yes, My Lord," he answered the call, dipping his balding head low in servitude.

"Prepare the fleet – they shall arrive soon."

The calm of that announcement alone had the power to send a shiver down the commander's back, and the man did not dare to look the Sith in the eye, for fear that his heart would cede. "How do you..." he began, but then corrected immediately. "Are you certain?"

"My Lord Malak has seen it," Darth Bandon glowered menacingly. "Do as I have told you, Commander, and do it quickly."

"Y-yes, Lord Bandon," agreed the man sheepishly. "I will give the orders right away." He bowed and began to turn, when an invisible hand clasped his shoulder and pulled him back; he was forced to face the Sith.

The latter's own hand had barely risen to his chest and the fingers were held together elegantly. "One more thing, Commander," he pressed on the words.

The next moment, Rhel was released and he took a shaky deep breath. "Ye... yes?"

"Be sure that enough of our forces are available when I board one of the Republic's ships," Darth Bandon articulated calmly. "I want you to fire at that one with all you've got."

Sith didn't sacrifice themselves, that much Rhel did know for certain. "With you on board, Lord Badon?" he dared to express his confusion. "Lord Malak would never forgive me if I..."

"Commander," he was interrupted briskly. "You will fire on that ship with all idle forces."

"Yes, Lord Bandon," the man resigned.

With a smirk, the Dark Jedi's bald head turned to look over Rhel's shoulder, at the line of technicians doing their work on the bridge. Darth Bandon always enjoyed finding mistakes to punish, even when there were none; but apparently this time he didn't want to, for he turned away and strode off.

Back where he had come from, he had to prepare for a prospective meeting with a certain Jedi...


	3. The Fall of the Endar Spire

_Thanks to all who reviewed. Unfortunately, I can't reply directly to the anonymous ones, so I had to do it here._

_Now, I could go claiming credit for such a wonderful thing, but I will shamefully admit I had -no- idea that Carth's wife was named Morgana when I created my character. I checked on it to see if it was official, and it sort of is... it's been made by Carth's own creator. So I'll be using it in my story then; should bring some pretty interesting interaction about. Thank you, Aria, for pointing it out._

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

**The Fall of the Endar Spire**

The soft vibrations that engulfed the entire hull of the ship grew more intense for a moment and a bit of inertia exerted its effects on the passengers. The lines outside rarefied and withdrew as the speed decreased in an instant – they became the simple stars that they truly were and the Endar Spire stopped, out of hyperspace. All around them, other Republic spaceships had emerged and done the same. At still a fair distance, the mixture of metallic greens, grays and blues that was the surface of Taris loomed before their eyes.

Everyone important had gathered on the bridge, to confer; Carth wished he would have told Trask to wake his bunk mate. But there wasn't much he could do now.

"Have all ships arrived safely?" he spoke into the communicator that would transmit his voice to the rest of the fleet.

Normally, that would have been the role of Admiral Dodonna, but she had remained on Coruscant to assist the senate in organizing what little was left of the Republic's defenses. They had thought Bastila to be enough in the way of leadership here and each ship had been assigned its own officer; it was the job of Bastila's crew – Carth's job – to make sure the Jedi's dispositions got to everyone else.

The device beeped in recognition and began to code the message, then broadcast it. The reply arrived to it some seconds later and it decoded, imitating the speaker's voice exactly. "Affirmative. Shall we occupy the established positions?"

Carth glanced over to Bastila, who was standing tall a few steps away and frowning at the planet ahead of them. She nodded to him briefly, without being distracted from her concentrated study.

"Into formation, as planned," confirmed Carth in the communicator.

"Understood." A small break. "Sir, the Sith fleet isn't ahead of us, as it should have been."

Bastila gave a small start and her hands broke their hold behind her and returned to her sides; she approached and took the comm from Carth. "Then hold your current positions," she ordered firmly.

"What has gone wrong?" asked a concerned Carth.

"The Jedi Council considered this possibility when the matter was debated," replied Bastila, in her usual serene voice, her eyes still lost in space. "The Sith have been purposefully trying to lure us here. It was not a mere coincidence that most of their ships were gathered in the same system at exactly the time we managed to decipher their codes."

Carth understood what she meant very well. "Then this is a tra-"

He did not finish the word properly, because the next few moments quickly became a huge frenzy: everywhere, Sith ships were materializing out of hyperspace, finding the gaps in their organized formation with excellent accuracy. They began to fire on several of the important republic ships, which they had guessed from all the others with commendable precision. And most of all, they fired upon the Endar Spire itself, even while several of their own boarding ships approached it. The bridge shook, along with everyone on it, when the first shot slammed against their frontal shield.

"Where possible, form the teams as planned last," breathed Bastila into the communicator, right the moment before she sank to her knees and closed her eyes.

Carth knew better than to disturb her and he turned to the soldiers and technicians on the bridge. "Men," he regarded all of them at once. "Sound the alarms and then grab your weapons. We are being boarded!"

All of them reacted as one, pressed buttons, then drew vibroblades, since blasters wouldn't have been a good choice for a space so reduced in size and filled with devices that could explode, as the bridge was. Everywhere, sirens began to howl like mad and lights to pulse red, melding with the tumult already caused by a new salve of hits scored on their ship. Luckily, it was sturdy and of a clever build: most of the vital systems were hidden away in places difficult to reach. It would last long.

The general opinion was that the boarding ships were coming for Bastila to be taken alive. One of the other Jedi nodded to her companions and then looked to Carth.

"We will go fend off as many as we can," she promised the soldier, then all of them departed through the blast doors, one by one, with commendable self-control.

Through the large porthole, Carth saw the Endar Spire's two interceptors attempting to keep the boarding parties away, but they were soon engaged by a swarm of Sith fighters. Surely, they were lost; as was the Spire itself, maybe. Even with Bastila's guidance.

* * *

Morgana's head still throbbed when she managed to rise into a sitting position, from the rough impact she had made with the floor while the agonizing Endar Spire first shuddered. Still half clouded by sleep, she began to rub her temples, faintly conscious of the alarms springing to life all at once. "What the-" 

She never finished, since the door glided open right at that moment and in stepped a tall man wearing the Republic red-and-black uniform. He was blond-haired and pale, though muscular and well-built in general; he held a blaster pistol, as he stared right at her with a stern expression.

"The Endar Spire is under attack!" he announced, alarmed. "Hurry up – we don't have much time."

"Ugh," Morgana groaned as she was grabbing the bed's edge and helping herself up. "Who are you?"

"Trask Ulgo," he clarified urgently. "Ensign with the Republic fleet and your bunk mate here on the Endar Spire."

"Oh..." mumbled a still perplexed Morgana. "So that's you..."

"Hurry up and get dressed!" he nearly snapped at her. "We have to make sure Bastila gets off this ship alive."

"Right," Morgana nodded and shook off the remaining drowsiness. She was just opening her locker when some realization hit her. "Who's Bastila, anyway?"

Trask watched as she grabbed her pants, boots and space pilot tunic. "You don't know?" he seemed surprised. "Well... she's... not an officer, really, but she's in charge of this mission. It's one of our primary duties to guarantee her survival."

"But I'm a scout, not a soldier!" she objected as she got dressed in a hurry. "I'm not here to fight, I'm here because... erm..." Her voice grew weaker as she realized she wasn't quite sure of the reason herself. "... Though, I did swear some... oath..."

"I heard what everyone's saying about you," Trask cut her short. "You've explored the farthest reaches of the galaxy – planets I've never even heard of."

"I'm just... curious," she muttered, now struggling to clasp a stealth field generator around her waist.

Her tunic's great number of pockets should be enough to compensate, she thought, for the lack of compartments the generator had in comparison to an utility belt. She attached a sword to it and then stuffed as many small medpacs, stimulants, security tunnelers and spikes as possible in her pockets. Lastly, she checked to see if she had her personal communicator – she did. "I'm ready," she announced.

Trask nodded and turned, inserting the code to open the door that the Endar Spire's automatic lockdown system had jammed closed. Morgana grabbed the backpack containing her more important stuff, electronic journal and datapad collection included, then strapped it to her shoulders and took a blaster in each hand. The soldier had already exited, so she followed in a rush, hoping she hadn't forgotten anything in this place.

She'd most likely never return. She didn't know why she thought that... it was a feeling.

* * *

Bastila's Battle Meditation was truly a wonder; it had swiftly turned what looked like an easy task for the Sith fleet into a real fight. She had to be captured. And Darth Bandon would ensure that she was. 

He glanced at the two rows of fully armored troopers that flanked him in the Endar Spire's corridor. "Spread about the ship and kill everyone you see," he ordered the largest portion of them, then turned toward the hooded figures that stood apart from the common soldiers. "And you take care of any Jedi they find."

One by one, the men traipsed away, with the discipline that such a situation required of them; the group of Dark Jedi followed silently, like shadows gliding along the walls. Only the squad's captain and a few of the best troopers remained at Bandon's side, waiting for different indications.

"The bridge is close," he announced, then moved away and bade them all to go the opposite direction. "Ambush their leaders there – I will cut off any retreat."

* * *

Carth's every muscle was strained, though he wasn't aware of that fact, so concentrated he was on following the battle that took place in front of him, as far as the eye could see. Bastila's help was truly working wonders out there, but he knew a defeat when it was approaching so swiftly. The Sith fleet was larger than anything they had even dared to imagine, even after all the reports. 

He grabbed the internal communicator, as the clamor he could perceive from the corridors drew closer, but he didn't know what orders to give yet. He knew that the rest of the fleet would fall back into hyperspace if anything happened to their ship, but he hadn't given any thought to what to tell his own crew. As he thought of that, two of Bastila's Jedi strode in, their expressions troubled, and both, human and rodian alike, deactivated their lightsabers at the same time.

"There are Dark Jedi and Sith assault troopers on the ship," the human exposed the situation, and a bit of emotion did tingle behind the mask of calm. "Elysia and the others are trying to lead them away from the bridge, but I doubt none will come here at all."

"They will find us," agreed Carth, as he quickly pressed a few buttons and set the communicator to send his message, when he would speak it, to all of the crew's personal devices. His intention was to gather them all in the same place, for a proper retreat. "Men," he addressed the present soldiers for now, without looking at them. "Prepare yourselves."

Just then, the door burst open and a band of Sith troopers flooded inside, some wielding vibroblades, others holding blaster rifles. The technicians on the bridge, all men less used to combat and more skilled with operating terminals and internal defense devices from a distance, tried to block the attack, but they stood no chance. Carth knew what to say now, and he had to do so immediately – he shouted into the communicator quickly.

Then, he turned to the two Jedi, who had interrupted Bastila; the three of them were now preparing to help his men. "No," he said, pointing to the other door. "Bastila, you must make it to the escape pods!"

The Jedi woman looked to Carth, almost as if she were trying to pierce eye-holes through him, then nodded. "The three of you are coming with me," she demanded.

Perhaps they would have objected, if she had left any room for it. Carth sighed as he followed, and hoped the men would have enough sense to fall back too, once they arrived and saw what had happened.

* * *

Morgana's next shot missed, when she got distracted by the click of the comm in her pocket. She dived behind a corner, to listen to whatever message was arriving. Across the corridor, she saw Task had done the same and was now safe behind another corner. 

"We have been boarded by the Sith," announced a strong voice through both comms, which caused a strange duplicate effect; Morgana immediately liked it.

She knew a reply would be useless – the message wasn't addressed directly to any of them. "Tell me something I don't know..." she muttered darkly, to herself.

"This is Carth Onasi," continued the voice in the comm, as if fulfilling her request. "They're threatening to overcome our position. We can't hold out long against their firepower. All hands to the bridge!"

Meanwhile, the Sith they had withdrawn from had engaged other Republic soldiers in the corridor, who weren't hiding. Morgana exchanged a glance with Trask.

"That was Carth contacting us," he explained to her quickly. "He's one of the Republic's best pilots – he's seen more combat than the rest of the Endar Spire's crew put together."

"He said we should go to the bridge, I think," she noted.

"Well," Trask seemed to think, though he was clearly addressing her. "If he says things are bad, you better believe it." He shook his head and gave Morgana a stern look. "We have to get there and help defend Bastila!"

"I see," Morgana replied, not too convinced about the 'Bastila' part of it all, but certainly aware that the bridge led to their only way off the ship, as well. "They gave me a map of this thing," she continued, as she quickly skimmed through the datapads in her backpack and chose the mentioned one to insert into her electronic journal. "There. Let's move."

She gathered everything and kept only one blaster, while the other hand continued to hold the device. They made their way through a number of Sith patrols and managed to gather some more Republic soldiers on the way. They even ran into a Jedi who was fighting a Sith. The mesmerized Morgana watched the combat with great interest; the Jedi seemed to be winning, but someone she couldn't see threw a grenade into the nearby wall and both were felled by the explosion.

Their small party continued on through a couple of more ample battles, which once again left just her and Trask standing. They picked better melee weapons off some dead elite Sith troopers and moved for the bridge, only to find it shaken by unstable terminals threatening to engage into a new chain of explosions and stray wiring that whirled about. Whatever battle had taken place there had already ended, and there were only corpses.

"Bastila's not here," remarked Trask and he obviously was disappointed that he still wouldn't get the chance to defend his favorite Jedi.

"Cut the Bastila thing out already!" Morgana snapped at him. "Look. I know she's a Jedi and all, but everyone is important."

"You don't understand. She's more important bec-"

She interrupted him with an exasperated gesture. "Are those soldiers dead or just unconscious?" she asked and pointed over to the terminals at the bridge's other end, and the figures that lay among the wiring, looking pretty much unscathed.

"Most likely," Trask answered. "We can't check – those heated cables look like they could explode any minute!"

"Hold these," Morgana demanded and shoved her blaster and journal in his arms. "I'm going to see."

"It's too risky," Trask objected, though he did relieve her of the burdens.

"I know," she offered a little, innocent smirk. "Hey, what happened to you? You look... awfully pale."

"I inhaled some of the gas when they threw that strong poison grenade," Trask replied on a tone so calm as if that were nothing.

"We have no means to cure that here!" Morgana became alarmed. "We need to move quickly."

"Don't worry about me," he dismissed her concern.

Morgana sighed theatrically and turned away. "Soldiers," she muttered in what attempted to pass for a mildly critical tone. Then, she concentrated on not touching the mass of wiring on the way to the collapsed team of Republic personnel.

"Scoundrels," answered Trask the same way, referring to her.

"I'm a scout," she corrected absently. "You seemed to know things abo-" She interrupted herself and quickly rolled behind one of the terminals, just in time to avoid the fall of a thick piece of cable her passage had stirred.

"Watch it," Trask warned her, frowning. Then, when he saw she was fine, he breathed out and calmed again. "And, to get technical, I couldn't really place you into any category. You fight like a soldier, have the skills of a scout and act like a risk-taker of sorts."

As she listened to him, Morgana studied the fallen cable. It was still plugged at the other end; if it had hit her, it would have sent an electric shock no one could ever hope to survive through her body. But somehow, she had felt it before it actually moved, and the moment of her dodge had been approximately simultaneous to the threat's beginning.

Morgana was used to hearing things like what Trask had just confessed to her, to not fit in anywhere, really; and also to having such strange feelings. She thought the former to be the result of the variety of cultures she had seen and studied, while the latter should denote an excellent refinement of her reflexes, which she owed to the vast expanse of dangerous situations she had gone through. She had never bothered to get into a more in-depth analysis, and so she did the same now.

Crawling on her knees and elbows, she managed to reach the group of inert bodies without further incidents. Reaching out with an agile hand, she checked the men for pulse, one by one. "Dead, all of them," she told Trask as she began to return. The route back was safer, due to the fact that the new shuffle, caused by that huge cable's fall, had made room.

"I told you," Trask shook his head. "You took an unnecessary risk."

"But what if I hadn't and they were alive, hmm?" Morgana rebuffed. "No, I don't regret one second of this."

"Let's go!" a Trask that was firmer than ever before urged her. "They must have retreated to the escape pods."

Morgana looked over to the other door the bridge had, beside the one they had used to come in. The path to it, and consequently to the ship's starboard section and the escape pods, was blocked. Fortunately, by nothing too dangerous.

"Let's get to it," she said, grabbing a dislocated durasteel floor-tile and shoving it aside.

* * *

Bastila stopped at the same time as the other two Jedi; they gave simultaneous sudden starts and took synchronized deep breaths. Carth stopped to stare at them with a bit of caution. 

"What happened?" asked the soldier. "We need to move!" He pointed to the tunnel that led to the starboard section of the Endar Spire, just to his left.

"Elysia is dead," Bastila explained to him on a somber tone, avoiding the look of anyone else.

"I felt it as well. And there is a Dark Jedi in there," added the other human Jedi, indicating a blast door right in front of him.

"No doubt, he knows we are here too," Bastila remarked coldly and eyed the respective door with determination.

The rodian Jedi began to articulate a series of words in his own native language. Apparently, though Carth didn't, his two other companions understood.

"Yes!" agreed the young human male fervently. "Bastila, you must escape. We'll deal with him, then follow if there is still time."

_Or if you survive,_ Carth thought to himself.

Bastila seemed to ponder this solution for a moment, but then nodded, her expression growing even more serious. "May the Force be with you."

* * *

Once off the bridge, Morgana stopped in the small room that followed and recovered her possessions from Trask. The weakened man's struggle with the spreading poison was now more obvious, in his slightly accelerated breath, his frown, and the exceedingly tight way he clasped the vibrosword's hilt in his hand and fiddled with it – standard methods to dismiss pain. 

Before she could ask him if he would like her to carry some of his gear or something, the door directly in front of them glided open and revealed the corridor beyond. A bald Dark Jedi holding a still activated double-bladed lightsaber was standing there and looking at them – he had probably used the Force to access the panel and open the door from afar. Behind him, on the floor, lay two males wearing the robes of the Jedi Order, a dead rodian and a horribly disfigured human who was still twitching occasionally in a puddle of his own blood. They didn't have much time to decide what to do.

"I'm dying anyway," Trask made his choice in cold blood, in only the blink of an eye. "I'll try to hold him off – go to the escape pods!"

"But..."

Before Morgana could even articulate the rest of her objection, he had rushed in and jammed the door shut behind him. It was the way war went – at one point, your friends died. Forcing herself to resign and understand that she could not help anymore, Morgana headed over to the starboard section, looking behind her from time to time. As soon as she stepped in there, the comm clicked again.

"This is Carth Onasi on your personal communicator," said the same voice as before, though a bit calmer.

This had been a message addressed only to her – a reply was expected. She pulled the comm out of her pocket and held it to her mouth. "Oh, really?" she chose sarcasm as the means to reply.

"Look, there's no time!" the man cut her short, in a scolding tone. "Now that Bastila's off the ship, nothing's keeping the Sith from destroying it; this could happen any minute."

"Oh," snorted Morgana. "Surely you aren't waiting just for me."

"I am," Carth replied. "I'm monitoring the Endar Spire's life support system and you're the last surviving crew member."

_Then Trask is dead,_ thought Morgana bitterly. "There's a Dark Jedi behind me," she felt the need to mention.

"I'm not detecting anyone," Carth sighed through the comm. "Just be careful – but hurry up!"

* * *

Commander Rhel stood straight and perfectly still, as he watched the familiar dark-robed figure of Darth Bandon emerge from the small boarding ship docked in the larger star destroyer's hangar. Nothing remained of his boarding party. The Sith Lord approached slowly, each of his steps taken exactly as the previous, with a coordination that would have fascinated the middle-aged man, hadn't he been fearing for his life so much. 

"My Lord," Rhel greeted the lone Dark Jedi meekly, bowing his head.

Darth Bandon did not even seem to realize the Commander existed. He did not flinch or budge from his state of calm and walked along a series of corridors, until he reached the bridge. He stopped in front of the large portholes, to stare at one exact spot that was the Endar Spire, shaken by intensified salves. He seemed to be only too dismissive of the other surviving republic ships, who were now beginning to flee into hyperspace, one by one.

From that distance, he failed to notice the small escape pod emerging from the side when the final explosion swept over the Endar Spire. All he saw was the blazes that extended and he could almost hear the huge blast, so vividly he was imagining it. A much smaller reflection of the scene shone in his own brown eyes.

When the stain of bright orange and auburn began to fade away, he finally noticed that Rhel had followed. "Commander, there is a prisoner in the boarding ship," he disposed. "His condition is precarious, but I expect our medics to rehabilitate him and bring him to the torture room." He saw the man motion for a lieutenant and gesture that he should go see to that. The Dark Jedi continued. "Then, position our fleet around Taris and form a blockade. Announce quarantine publicly – no ships are leaving or arriving, except our own. And organize a search for the escape pods that crashed on this side of the planet."

Rhel had been listening carefully, trying his best not to show his glee at not being killed, as he had thought. "Yes, My Lord," he answered enthusiastically.

"Also," Darth Bandon added imperiously, turning to dominate the commander as he regarded him with cruel eyes. "Prepare for the arrival of the Leviathan in the next few hours."

Rhel swallowed tightly. The mentioned ship would undoubtedly be carrying Admiral Saul Karath – and worse, Lord Malak himself.


	4. Establishing Reports

**CHAPTER TWO**

**Establishing Reports**

_Dantooine._

_The thick wisps of ochre grass, tall and swaying in the wind one after the other, separate and yet forming a single field. The golden sun and the calm way its mild rays caressed the walls of homely ground-floor-only abodes and reflected off their windows. The simple, tranquil life that all led between the limits they were content to have been given and how no one was trying to rise and dominate the others. There weren't many places like that left in the galaxy._

_It was the planet that Bastila had come to see as her home, under the guidance and care of four of the Jedi Masters she respected most. It was nothing like Talravin, her native world; or like any of the numerous others she could barely recall visiting while very young. Yet she knew that she had left Dantooine at a time of change, with Mandalorian remnants arriving and local feuds and squabbles waiting for the moment to erupt. She yearned to see it again, to learn of what it had become._

_Once, she had asked Master Dorak, the Jedi historian, about the planet's past._

"_In the sense you ask, it has none," he had replied to her, with the familiar peaceful smile and clouded eyes. "Dantooine has always been as you see it. Its beauty comes from the ability to maintain the same general aspect, no matter what is done to the details. It is a lesson some of us should learn."_

"_But nothing lasts forever," the slightly younger-than-present Bastila had objected. "Or progress would never arrive."_

_They were looking out from the enclave's courtyard into the combination of wilderness and inhabited land that stretched beyond the elevations of ground shielding the complex from a harm that would not come. The sight was limited at first, but it fell open very soon and revealed itself to the eye, with nothing to hide at all._

"_History has much to teach us," Master Dorak had replied. "One other lesson would be that it is not always progress which comes."_

"_I know," Bastila had admitted with a sigh, thinking that hadn't been her point._

_They had listened to the wind and, through the Force, she had heard it carry the sounds and seen it bring the images of where it had been before. They were distorted and atrophied into mere sensations and impulses by the time they reached her, but they were there._

"_But yes," Dorak had finally resumed. "Change is inevitable, for better or for worse, and there will come a time when Dantooine will undergo such."_

_Well, that time had clearly come, she had thought. Still thought._

But this wasn't the moment for Bastila to concern herself with the past and with planets that were left far away, no matter how significant or dear to her. There was also a present time, and a current place, from which she faintly distinguished voices that were much closer than Dorak's. She stirred slowly.

Suddenly, the general rumor, as much as she could perceive it, ceased and left her conscious of the horrible ache in her head. Then someone agitatedly shouted something in a language Bastila didn't bother to identify. She was much more preoccupied with figuring out what had happened, where she was and what the intent of that voice's emitter may have been. Flashes hit her – the Endar Spire, the Sith fleet, the escape pod... it looked like the crash had shaken her severely.

"Brejik!" called another man and at first she thought it was some word in yet another language. Then, when he continued in Galactic Basic, she realized it had been a name. "She's coming to her senses!"

Of course, whatever had found her _had_ to be hostile or afraid. Bastila struggled to open her eyes as she heard steps approaching and a couple of others trying to make room. She managed it just in time to see the blurred image of a man leaning in to take a better look at her.

"Do we have a neural restraint?" he asked coldly.

"A collar," someone who was a bit further away replied. "It's with Drenk."

"That'll do," the man concluded, pulling away from Bastila. "Tell him to bring it."

Bastila moved, ever so imperceptibly, trying to reach for her lightsaber. The object should have been, as far as she was aware, tucked safely behind a larger fold of her robes, but she felt for it in vain – nothing was there.

There wasn't much of a choice for her. Without her lightsaber, not yet strong enough to reach the necessary focus it took one to control the Force and affect their surroundings in any way that would matter, Bastila stood no chance against these men who seemed to want to capture her. Obviously though, they weren't Sith, so she still had one open option left – a Jedi Force trance. If she could withdraw inside her subconscious, reducing her senses to an absolute minimum, then wait there, unaware of her surroundings, she might be able to avoid the restraint's effects. The Force would warn her when the moment was proper to come back to her senses, and maybe make an escape. Perhaps they would remove the collar later, when they thought themselves safe from her abilities.

It was far-fetched, but she could think of nothing else; at least not then and there. With the plan sketched in her mind and a decision quickly made, Bastila began to detach from the immediate material reality. Moves, sounds, images, all blended into an indefinite mass which began to depart from her. Smells were dulled as her breath descended to a perfect minimum, thoughts quietened and bodily functions reduced to the point of complete desertion.

When the restraint scraped at her skin and almost pierced through, when the collar snapped around her neck, she did not feel it.

* * *

Scavenging derelict apartment complexes in the Lower City for something she could sell wasn't as much what she wanted to do, but what was necessary to ensure she had a full stomach. At first, with that certain someone she preferred not to think of, this activity, a new sport to them both back then, had been something dangerous that they only performed when no other option presented itself. Then, when she had undertaken it by herself, it had seemed thrilling and adventurous. Now it was just dull, boring routine. 

Mission Vao, one of the many street urchins on Taris, was a Rutian Twi'lek, though she had little room to be proud of the rarity of her skin color. She would have gladly given that away for the credits to buy passage off the planet and a small corner to call home in another system. Here, anything that wasn't human got treated as an abomination, laughed at, harassed, and usually banished from the Upper City, where all the rich people resided. She was often on the run, hungry or tired.

Like now. Stifling a yawn with one hand, the young blue-skinned Twi'lek used the other to insert the security spike in the precise middle of the small footlocker's mechanism. She turned it inside the lock until a loud click was heard – the patterns on one side had matched those of the electronic system; the lid rose open by itself. Now it was all a simple matter of reaching out to take what was inside.

Mission had no issue with stealing from the Black Vulkars, one of the local swoop gangs. Most of them were thugs who dealt both drugs and slaves, and got part of their stuff by harassing and threatening others who weren't strong enough to defend. Not to mention that they didn't like her because of past transgressions and were always trying to make trouble for her.

There wasn't much to take from this particular footlocker, though; its owner was probably out trying to get some credits right at that moment. But it looked like he kept a spare pair of twin blasters, which appeared to have received several unusual upgrades. That was sure to make her some credits from the many dubious figures that gathered in Javyar's Cantina, maybe one of the bounty hunters. With that in mind, she reached out and carefully removed them from the container's interior, then began to stand up.

"Hey! Put that back!" would have been the appropriate translation for the agitated phrase the Kajain'sa'Nikto who was now standing in the door-frame had emitted.

Living in the Lower City on Taris, a place where all species one could imagine convened, for as long as she had, Mission had a fine grasp of several languages, so she understood. And if the first Nikto's allegiance had been rather unclear, she had no problem identifying the colors of the Black Vulkar gang in the uniforms worn by the other Nikto that appeared immediately afterwards and the green-skinned Twi'lek accompanying him.

Unable to think of anything else, Mission pointed the two blasters at them. "I don't think so, murglak," she objected, preferring Galactic Basic, as usual, and shouting out quite loudly. She had pretty much tried to act and look way older than she was, like always, and to sound sure of herself, like someone who had things under control.

In fact, she was only trying to buy some time until she could think of a proper way to call in her friend, Zaalbar, who was scavenging another apartment in the complex. Or maybe she hoped she had been loud enough for him to hear and come by himself.

Zaalbar was a Wookiee – big, entirely covered by thick fur that concealed his tremendous musculature, and none too friendly; no one was stupid enough to pick fights with him if they didn't have a large party as backup. Except a Mandalorian, maybe, but there was no such thing to worry about now. As for how Mission and "Big Z", like she called him, had come to form a team, it was a long story that involved mutual benefit and many other things.

None of them was in for a kill unless absolutely necessary, though. That was why, when Mission decided to shoot one of the blasters for Zaalbar to hear, she didn't aim at any of the three Vulkars. Much rather, she targeted a random portion of the wall beside them in a hurry and pulled the trigger. The blast didn't do much, beyond confusing the Vulkars and plastering a new stain on the already flawed metallic surface it had hit.

The three began to snigger and nudge each other; Mission could identify a few muttered jokes about her hand, aim, lack of experience and eyes. With all that, they missed the sound of footsteps, while she didn't. "Guys," she addressed them nonchalantly. "I think you'd like to meet Big Z."

The Vulkars turned around in the direction she had pointed, while the now-sure-of-herself Mission approached, still holding the blasters. They were all facing a furred form at least two feet taller than any of them, who stood with his arms akimbo and looked at them. When he saw them returning the stare, he growled something; only Mission understood but the others got the same idea from the tone pretty well.

"We don't want any trouble with you," said the Twi'lek Vulkar, gesturing and doing his best to seem amiable. "It was a misunderstanding."

The Wookiee growled some more words in his own language, beginning to calm down, though he still eyed the three reproachfully.

Mission grinned – she had an idea. "Big Z thinks we should make a trade," she began cheerfully. "We'll give you the blasters if each of you can come up with fifty credits."

The Vulkars easily mistook Zaalbar's growls of surprise and wonder for a confirmation to what Mission had said. Needless to say, they weren't thrilled with the possibility of picking a fight with an angry Wookiee, so they handed the credits over and the exchange was made, Satisfied, Mission signaled Zaalbar to follow her out of the apartment and along a corridor.

"That's not what I told them," the Wookiee tried to clarify with her.

"I know," Mission replied, with a shrug. "Sorry, Big Z, but there was no way I could have warned you of what I wanted to do." He seemed to agree now, so she continued. "Let's go to the Bek base; I bet they'd like to hear about _this_ episode."

"But we can buy something to eat now," Zaalbar protested mildly.

"Oh, come on, Big Z," Mission rolled her eyes, as they were exiting the complex. "Think of something else for a while longer. We'll go to Javyar's Cantina to eat _later_. Besides, Gadon said something interesting about crashed escape pods..."

* * *

Tarisian ale was much like the man who sat drinking some of it right now. Many drinkers, experienced or not, knew its properties and taste well, appreciated them, but the recipe remained a mystery to most. So was Calo Nord – most of those who had something to do with bounty hunting knew well of his name and repute, but he as a person remained in secrecy. Just as all had tasted Tarisian ale, but few had ever brewed any, so had many seen Calo, but few could make the claim that they had sustained a real conversation with him. 

Maybe that was one of the reasons he liked the ale so much. Of course, he never drank more than a decent quantity at a time. Calo Nord didn't understand those men who wished to forget about the world around them, when the key to his success had been his permanently calm and calculated mind. For example, that kid over at the other table, who was holding his head with his hands and staring at him – he was as drunk as one could get before passing out.

Because of the sensor goggles he wore, there was no way to tell where Calo was looking, and yet the severely inebriated young man waved at him when he glanced over, then flashed the experienced bounty hunter a dumb smile. It looked as if he had been pondering that option for a while and it was only by coincidence that he had decided to perform it at that exact moment.

Calo's first reaction was to ignore the man, but that only caused the latter to drunkenly stand up, take a few clumsy steps, then fling himself seated at Calo's table. "Well, well," he began, gesturing broadly. "If it ishn't the greatsh Calo Nord! ... My name'sh Gerv."

The bounty hunter didn't even flinch, with his stare focused on the man, though no one could know that. "Go away," he said demandingly.

"Y'know, Calo," Gerv seemed to ignore that. "Why don'tsh'ever come shtick with us other huntersh?"

"One," Calo uttered, still impassive.

He had thus begun a trick he was quite famous for. Whenever he had unwanted company, of any sort it may have been, he would count to three. Whoever was stupid enough to reach that last number by still bothering him usually found certain death. The methods Calo employed for that differed from one situation to another.

"No need for that," the drunk man reacted immediately, doing his best to look harmless. "I wash jusht trying to talk to you."

"Two," was the only reply that came from Calo.

"Alright, alright," Gerv finally backed from the situation and stood up again. "I gotsh the drift... I'm out."

Apparently, 'out' had gained significant new connotations for the moment, because, as soon as he was done talking, the man lost consciousness and collapsed to the floor as an inert mass. Calo didn't mind that much and took another sip of his own ale. No one questioned him about anything, not even a few minutes later, when two of Javyar's serving droids came by to carry the man to a safer place. Obviously, someone didn't want to lose the droids and had given them specific instructions for that particular case.

No one else took an interest in Calo until later, when a tall, muscular figure with a stern, strictly-business look about him walked in, flanked by two aides who looked much weaker than they actually were when placed beside him. The three of them were armed with heavy blaster carbines and, by the blood that stained their boots, they had just returned from a mission or something. Everyone knew Canderous Ordo, a Mandalorian mercenary currently working for Davik's Exchange Office on Taris.

This time, the Exchange had business with Calo, since, although the other two went to buy drinks, Canderous headed the bounty hunter's way and stopped where the latter could see him clearly. It was nothing Calo hadn't been expecting at all, though the moment had come sooner than anticipated and was, therefore, still a bit of a surprise.

"Davik can see you," the Mandalorian stated toward the bounty hunter. "Here's the terms he proposes." With that, he shoved a datapad on the table.

Calo reached out for the object and carefully placed it in his pocket, then stood up. He didn't bother to acknowledge Canderous, but merely proceeded past him and headed for the cantina's exit. The Mandalorian's boots were heard brushing the floor, and that was how the hunter could tell he had turned around and was watching his departure.

"Don't forget you're still the new hound, Calo," Canderous warned coldly.

Amusing – the man feared the bounty hunter might take his place as Davik's strong hand and was making a feeble attempt to consolidate that position. "One," Calo replied equally, not even bothering to turn his head or slow his pace.

"Don't start that with me," Canderous said dismissively. "You're not in the Exchange yet – Davik won't mind if I shoot you."

"Two," Calo continued to move away.

As the only response, he heard Canderous arm his carbine and most likely aim it at his back.

"Smart," Calo muttered, trying to seem as if he thought his point had been the one proven there.

In truth, he knew well that neither he, nor Canderous had won there; and the Mandalorian knew it, too. Also, both were conscious of the fact that a confrontation between the two of them would arrive, sooner or later. There wasn't enough room for two men that strong in the Exchange on Taris.

* * *

"Did you capture Bastila?" Darth Malak inquired of his apprentice, who sat on his knees before the master. The next moment, though, he answered his own question, as he was turning around to face Bandon's bowed head. "No. I do not feel her presence here, but on the planet below." 

The apprentice dared to raise his eyes and look at Malak's disfigured and tattooed face. Sometimes, he wondered if the dark side alone had done that, or if something else had occurred.

"She left two of her pawns to delay my pursuit," Bandon replied, and his eyes were aflame with contained rage at the failure.

A frown deepened on Malak's face as he crossed his arms on his chest and leaned closer in. "Jedi do not have 'pawns'," he said, his voice sounding as hollow as ever... as artificial as the metal jaw he was forced to wear. "The fools probably _chose_ to remain behind."

"Then, there was another who dared to cross me," Bandon continued his report. "He did it to protect a woman and allow her to escape... she was strong in the Force, I could feel it."

Malak turned again, the folds of his thin, knee-long cloak following in disarray; he looked out, at the planet below them, now, so close, a massive globe whose general traits were rather clearly distinguishable. The Leviathan, admiral ship and jewel of the Sith fleet, hovered on orbit, maintaining itself inside the blockade's circle.

"Stand," the Dark Lord commanded, then waited for his apprentice to comply and join in his survey of Taris. "Was this man a Jedi, also?"

"No," Bandon replied, remaining one step behind his master, in a state that combined personal pride with servitude in exact equal amounts. "But I spared... _preserved_ his life and brought him to be tortured."

Malak took a silent deep breath, perceptible only by the moves of his shoulders and chest. "And the woman? Was _she_ a Jedi, or merely Force-sensitive?"

"I did not spot a lightsaber," Bandon confessed, "She was wielding a vibrosword."

For a few moments, the only sound that dominated the room was the distant vibration of the engines and other working devices.

"Then you can torture the prisoner yourself," Malak concluded.

Bandon began to withdraw, slowly, walking backwards. "Should I kill him when I am done, my master?" he asked.

Malak seemed to think on that for a long moment; perhaps he was forming an entire plan around the prisoner. Or maybe he was just counting possibilities and factors. Nevertheless, he pondered deeply and assiduously before he gave the final answer to that question.

"No."


	5. Visions and Plans

**CHAPTER THREE**

**Visions and Plans**

_Amazing._

_Lightsaber duels were simply beautiful – a wondrous example of what the Force could do to one's muscles and reflexes. Jedi and Sith alike could dance with moves so fine that the large folds of their robes and cloaks did not find one moment to rest. They hovered and slashed, then glided and parried, and each time the procedure was another, at a speed that did not allow one to remember a simple sequence of three exact moves. It was all a game of anticipation, a play materializing behind thoughts that were much quicker and left it behind. It all depended on who would lag first and allow the plane of action to catch up with the dimension of thought._

_Dueling was art – visual complexity upon the auditive background of lightsabers humming and gritting together in a continuous way that was, somehow, melodic. But the best part of it all was that one could always learn something, not only by participating, but also by watching, even from those of least skill and expertise. Each combatant's style was the expression of their personality and of their accord with the Force; there were no two styles that were entirely identical, despite the existence of techniques. Truly a master was he who could add a little bit of everyone's style to their own and turn it into an amalgam of exquisite complexity._

_Fascinating._

_Lack of real-time practice was not what made the Sith Apprentice into a duelist inferior to the equally young Jedi woman that he faced. It was not the difference of technique either, nor was it the opposite nature of the things that fueled them. It was her confidence and her perfect knowledge of what she could and could not do that made her better. It was easy to tell for one as experienced as the one who watched the dark one yield and fall back._

_He had probably thought that a single step taken backwards would not alter the general picture, that he would easily regain the lost ground once he had recovered. But in the world of the Force, there was no such thing as 'back'; everything pushed forward inexorably, into the arms of change, and it was in one's hands alone to forge the nature of that change._

_The watcher knew that the Dark Jedi had lost already; it was only a matter of time before both combatants saw that, too._

As subtly as it had arrived, the dream washed away, leaving only a trace of abstract behind it. Not one moment did she wonder about why the vision had come to her.

Morgana's eyes opened as if driven by an invisible mechanism from the inside. A shudder crossed her body, leaving her tense, breath was forced out of her lungs and all was a flash of white. As the image cleared and divided into fogged shapes, so did her strain succumb gradually into a state of welcome numbness.

A small shake of her head and blinking her eyes a little, despite the stinging, helped with further clearing her view. From a certain distance above, the semi-familiar face of a man who stood by her bed was looking at her. The general expression she could read on his features was a concern that had begun to diminish.

"Good to see you up, instead of... thrashing about in your sleep," he said gently, breaking some sort of convalescent silence that her surroundings maintained.

He was tall and well-built, as a quick linear study revealed; obviously a Republic soldier, he wore a pair of black fatigues that fell into knee-high boots and a jacket whose color varied from light brown to dark orange, depending on one's mood and perspective. It seemed as if he hadn't shaved in at least the past twenty-four hours and the brown hair had apparently once been combed carefully, before those few small strands had tumbled down across his forehead. His eyes were rather shady, but also brown, while the complexion presented a tendency toward pallor, though not excessively so, which created only a mild contrast. Just fitting for the tempered voice.

"Umm... hi?" Morgana managed to utter with the semblance of confusion, before she felt that familiar need to cough and clear her throat.

When she was done with that, she noticed the drop of one of his rather thin brows, which had undoubtedly risen at her. "Take it easy," he advised.

_A bit late for that_, she thought.

Then, she tried to drag herself into a sitting position, which he facilitated with a helping hand. It was enough for her to read a moderate amount of strength that was easily controlled and administrated by his conscious self. Not just _a_ soldier, a well-trained one at that.

"Thanks," she said, smiling a little, as he let go.

"You must have been having one hell of a nightmare," he remarked, in a way that clearly showed he wouldn't have wished to be in her place. "I was wondering if you were ever going to wake up."

"How long have I been... err... incapacitated?" Morgana inquired, while trying to make an idea about her surroundings. All she saw was a neat little room, with strong durasteel walls and with too little in the way of furniture.

"Well..." he seemed to consider that for a bit. "I think you've been slipping in and out of consciousness for a couple of days now."

"Oh, lovely," she neither sounded, nor looked too pleased. Her eyes returned to the man. "I remember you. The comm, then the escape pod – Carth, right? I'm Morgana."

He nodded, but somehow the look he gave her when she introduced herself made the woman feel very uncomfortable.

"I know," he finally decided to say, then offered her a glass of water she had apparently failed to notice he held in one hand.

Accepting it without much delay, she drank with a thirst that was, paradoxically, not quenched, but rather stirred even more. This wasn't the first time she was rendered unconscious for this long, so she knew the sensation and also that it needed time to go away. She handed back the empty glass, which he placed away, on the corner of what looked like an old workbench.

"Is that thing still functional?" Morgana asked, using her chin to point at the workbench, while her fingers drummed the bed's edge idly.

"I think so," Carth shrugged.

"My vibrosword's cell short-circuited or something like that," she explained. By that time, she had already spotted the object in a corner, on the floor. "I recall the incident vaguely."

She stood up, limiting her movement speed to its slowest, most careful decent degree, to avoid any sudden surge of pain as her muscles got reaccustomed to being functional. Her legs felt a bit shaky, but sustained her all the way through picking up the weapon and bringing it to the bench.

Meanwhile, Carth had gone to stand by one of the room's two windows, a small square made of what looked like permaplex. The towering forms of huge complexes were visible through its grayish surface, as well as smaller objects, probably shuttles, darting through on their way.

"So, what happened?" Morgana asked casually, grabbing a small screw driver that looked to be in one piece and that would help her disassemble the vibrosword's hilt quicker. "Where are we?"

"Obviously, we crashed on Taris," he began. "You were banged up pretty bad in the process, but luckily I wasn't seriously hurt. I was able to drag you away from our crash site in all the confusion, and I stumbled onto this abandoned apartment. By the time the Sith arrived on the scene, we were long gone."

"Well," Morgana chuckled, pulling a slightly blackened power cell and some wiring out of the vibrosword's hilt. "How nice of you to emphasize on how you saved my life."

"Hey," he seemed irritated, if only a bit. "I've never abandoned anyone on a mission, and I'm not about to start now."

She didn't reply to that, but much rather reached to a row of pockets on her vest and began to feel at each of them carefully. "I know I had one here, somewhere..." she muttered. "Ah, here it is!"

She drew out a small vibration cell from one of the pockets and inserted it into the open hilt, pressing until she heard two simultaneous clicks. Then, she slipped the sophisticated tool, plugged into the workbench's side, that would repair the wiring behind it and it only took a few more seconds of quick maneuvering before she was triumphantly closing the hilt of a fully functional vibrosword again. Morgana strapped the weapon to her stealth field generator belt and then turned to Carth. She found him watching her attentively, but paid no attention to the fact.

"That need any fixing?" she asked, pointing to the blaster resting along his hip, in its accordingly-shaped sheath.

"No, thanks," he replied. "Look, I'm gonna need your help."

"Oh," Morgana caught herself beginning to remark before she could think about it. "Here comes another thing about that... Bastila."

"How did you know?" he looked pretty surprised. I mean, for someone who's just woken up from--"

"Intuition," she interrupted him, though she herself couldn't really explain it. "Tell me one thing – there were other Jedi on the ship. Why's Bastila so important?"

"Bastila is no ordinary Jedi," Carth looked to be better with explanations than Trask had been, though maybe only because she was actually allowing the man to speak. "She was with the strike team that killed Darth Revan, Malak's Sith master."

"Wait," Morgana stopped him, with a sudden flashback surging through her.

She didn't quite remember her dream, only the general lines of it, the Jedi and the Sith, whose particular details she could not recall, doing battle, and some thoughts on it. She had no idea what its connection to Bastila was, other than that she pertained to the Order; why she should strangely think of her dream because of the Jedi woman was beyond her comprehension. Most likely, her wanderings while unconscious had been a simple result of her unusual fascination with the Force. She had been writing way too much lately.

"What is it?" Carth asked, breaking the silence that her thoughtful state had imposed.

Morgana shook her head. "I don't know," she said vaguely, frowning. "It's like... I know something about that, but I just can't remember it."

"It's possible," he admitted. "Look, the Jedi requested you to be on the mission specifically; I don't know why. That smack to your head might have damaged some of your memories."

"Right," she sighed, resigning. "So; what else about Bastila?"

"She has this... rare gift," Carth resumed explaining. "The Jedi call it Battle Meditation."

"I've heard of that," Morgana's face lit up with recognition. "It's the ability of using the Force to coordinate entire battles, right? Reach out to the people directly involved and either direct or misguide them."

"From what I understand of it, yes," Carth confirmed. "But sometimes, not even that can win us a victory; like it happened up above Taris."

"Is Bastila here on Taris, then?"

"I tried to scout the area while you were... out. There are reports of escape pods crashing in the Undercity. I think that's where Bastila's went as well."

"I see," Morgana remained ambiguous.

"By the way," Carth seemed to remember. "Of your possessions, this looked the most important, so it's the only thing I risked salvaging from our crashed pod." He pointed to a backpack on the floor.

It was easy for the woman to recognize the pack where she stored her electronic journal and datapads. Eagerly, she stepped over and drew it open, scanning to determine the condition of the objects inside – they appeared intact, so she closed it again.

"You write mildly realistic fiction," Carth remarked casually. "Nice."

"You _looked_ through them?" Morgana seemed outraged, making a face as she struggled to strap the pack to her shoulders.

"You could have been withholding ... I mean, you ..." he made an attempt to excuse his actions, which soon became a quick try to mend his mistake. "I thought there would be information I was gonna need in there. You're a scout, after all."

"Oh, great," she chuckled, eyeing Carth oddly. "You know, you just gave me an idea for a new fictional character. I'll name him... umm... Carton. He'll be a fanatic republic soldier."

"Oh?" he raised an eyebrow. "Is that all you can?"

She grinned, pursuing the game with only a glint of mischief. "Don't worry, I won't forget to mention he needs to shave and has trust issues."

"I don't have..." he began to object, then dropped it. "Never mind."

Of a common silent accord, they had been heading for the door; they stopped in front of it. "Well, I'm starving," said Morgana, as if nothing had been worded out so far.

"Uhh..." it took Carth a few moments to get used to the change of subjects. "There should be some rations left... let me see..."

"No, no," she laughed. "Come on; we can talk more in the nearest cantina."

"Oh, sure," he seemed to reject her idea with whole-hearted aversion. "Let's go out on a planet the Sith have had quarantined and talk about a Republic mission!"

"There's more privacy in a cantina than you think," Morgana tried to calm him down. "Trust me."

By that point, Carth looked exasperated. "Privacy? There'll be dozens of ears to hear us speak."

Morgana's slight smirk grew. "Precisely," she said, nodding. "There's a significant difference between hearing something and actually realizing what it is."

* * *

As tired as she was at that point, Mission hardly cared about the smell of sewers, or whether she did or didn't step in any puddle of murky water coming from above. She had been following Big Z through this derelict area most of the Taris population had no idea about for ages, with no results at all. 

"I don't think we're gonna find their hideout, Big Z," she pleaded, trying to talk the Wookiee out of his pursue for the tenth time already. "I know Gamorreans are big, but so are the sewers."

"But they took my bowcaster," Zaalbar objected, growling vehemently and gesturing, which made him seem even fiercer than he usually looked.

"Well, I was hoping I could save them for another time," Mission admitted. "But I found some credits in one of the crashed escape pods; the Vulkar scavengers had apparently missed those. We can buy you a blaster."

Zaalbar remained silent, obviously lacking a suitable argument to counter her newly given reason to leave the smelly place. He had already told her he didn't want to give up on his bowcaster, the only thing he still had to remember his native world by, and Mission knew it wasn't easy to convince a Wookiee that he should give up his chase, once it had begun. She sighed and continued to walk behind him, with as much of her brain that was still capable of reasoning, with how weary she was, thinking of another possible solution.

"You know, I heard the Vulkars found some Jedi in there," she opened the conversation again, not sure what exactly that had to do with anything. "They might sell her on the slave market."

Zaalbar emitted what was the equivalent of a grumble, except it sounded much angrier coming from a Wookiee. He didn't like that last subject brought up, having in mind he had visited the slave market himself in the past. Though she wasn't fond of reminding him, Mission saw a chance there.

"We could find out where they're keeping her," she suggested, trying to appear cheerful and enthusiastic.

"How would we do that?" the Wookiee didn't seem convinced.

"Let's go ask Gadon... maybe he'll know."

Though Zaalbar remained silent, thinking about this new option, he had at least stopped this time, and Mission was no longer obliged to force herself and walk quickly, in order to keep up with his strides. She stopped, and tried to catch her breath before he could decide he still wanted to pursue the Gamorreans.

"Only if you promise we'll return and get my bowcaster," the Wookiee finally resumed, placing his condition.

At that point, Mission was quite willing to accept anything, as long as it meant they wouldn't stick around the sewers at the present time. After all, they came here often enough, driven by either curiosity, or other, more material reasons; one more search for the Gamorreans, when she would be less tired, couldn't be that bad. Even if it could mean a load of trouble.

"All right, Big Z," she promised.

* * *

Carth was still not wholly convinced when he followed Morgana out of the apartment's quiet safety without having made a plan first. The idea of discussing vital issues in the cantina still bothered the soldier more than he could put into words. He had to agree that, though a completely unnecessary risk, this woman's point was valid. Indeed, there were so many things to be heard in the cantina that no one would be bound to be paying attention to their conversation in particular. But that didn't mean he had to like the idea, and it certainly didn't mean he could trust her. 

He was so absorbed in his own thoughts that Morgana had to grab his arm and halt him before he would walk right into what was currently going on outside their apartment.

They were in a semi-narrow corridor that ran off in both directions and disappeared behind curves rather than corners; Carth knew it formed a circle, with doors on only its exterior side, the complex's exit included. Before they could get there, however, they'd have to either wait it out, or find a way to avoid the scene unfolding before them. A tall man holding a heavy blaster rifle and wearing the unmistakable uniform of a Sith lieutenant was sneering at a pair of Duros his two patrol droids had cornered into a wall.

Duros were bald aliens with generally smooth blue-gray skin, noseless pear-shaped heads with broad foreheads and wide red eyes lacking any form of lids or pupils. Carth knew their species well, but didn't understand the language. When the one who wore purple spoke back to the Sith, all he could do was study the tone and realize that it sounded mildly accusing. The only response that got the Duros was an instant shot from the lieutenant's rifle, one that scorched his whole chest and propelled him strongly against the wall.

"That's how we Sith deal with smart-mouth aliens!" the man spat, tossing his head as the victim's body skulked to the floor and lay still. "Now, the rest of you get up against the wall before I lose my temper again!"

Carth looked over to Morgana and saw her grip her newly fixed vibrosowrd's hilt tightly. "Shouldn't we help?" he whispered to her, nudging her arm lightly with the tip of his drawn blaster.

That, in itself, was enough to attract the Sith's attention. "Hey, what's this?!" he exclaimed when he saw the pair. "Humans hiding out with aliens?" It took him the blink of an eye to make the connections and realize what he was dealing with. "They're Republic fugitives! Attack!"

Quite late. As soon as he had finished ordering that, he found himself tumbling to the ground under the weight of the remaining Duros and he lost his weapon. Simultaneously, his two droids emitted loud cracks and collapsed, one of them under the repeated chops of Morgana's vibrosword and the other found by an intense blaster shot of Carth's. By the time the two humans approached, the alien was just finishing the process of strangling the man below him, who had turned a very unhealthy color.

Carth shifted his weight nervously, unable to understand the exchange of words that followed. Aside from Morgana asking whether someone would come looking for the patrol they'd just disposed of, all was a mystery to him. Then, he saw the Duros grab the lieutenant's corpse by the arms and start dragging it away.

"I'll get one of the droids," Morgana told Carth, turning to look at the soldier and assured him that all was fine. "You get the other." She then pointed to a green-skinned Twi'lek male who was staring at them from his spot further along the corridor, behind a stand. "A shopkeeper," she explained. "He'll gladly scavenge these for components to sell and throw away the remains for us."

"You didn't speak his language," Carth remarked as they were picking up the disabled droids.

"No," Morgana shrugged, starting to carry hers away. "I _could_ probably imitate the words in most of the languages I understand, but I'd be forcing my throat for no real purpose. 'Most everyone's supposed to know Galactic Basic."

She was right. "What did you talk about, exactly?"

"Uhh..." she tried to recall. "He said the Sith come here periodically, to rough them up and steal their belongings. And that he's sure no one here is going to report a thing."

"Not surprising," Carth smirked.

The shopkeeper accepted the droids without a single comment about what had happened; apparently, what he did do was try and sell them something, because Carth heard Morgana chuckle and say they didn't need it. Another man, an aged and tired-looking human wearing some old clothes, with stains and patches in several places, and carrying a set of tools varying in size, was staring at them – most likely the janitor. By the shrug he gave and the casual manner he resumed his stroll and inspection of the corridor's lighting, the way things had turned out suited him just fine.

Carth followed Morgana back to the scene of their little conflict, as the Duros passed by them again, this time carrying his own dead companion. Together, they stared at the blackened portions of floor, present where the droids' wiring and a stray blaster shot had touched it.

"We should clean this quickly," Morgana suggested. "We seem safe enough now, but the wrong people can happen by any time. Have a medpac?"

Carth nodded; both of them pulled out one such diminutive kit at once.

"Regular solvent should do the trick," the woman continued, as they were kneeling. "We can use the bandages as diminutive dusters."

The soldier couldn't quite explain why that made him smile and shake his head, as they were improvising the described means to clean off the stains. "Has anyone told you you act like a smuggler?" he asked, somewhat amused.

When she laughed, it looked like the occurrence was some sort of cliché to her. "Or some other kind of outlaw? Yeah," she nodded, then glanced to him. "How about you, hmm, soldier? Just _how_ important was your function on the Endar Spire, anyway?"

"That's amazing," Carth looked genuinely surprised. "How did you guess I had a function that was special in any way?"

"You're kidding, right?" the woman raised an eyebrow. "It was blatant." Morgana poured the solvent and began to rub the bandages against the floor industriously. "Why else do you think I was so amazed you waited for _me_ before getting off the ship?"

"There was only one escape pod remaining – I couldn't possibly leave someone behind to die," Carth argued vehemently. "And... well, Bastila told me to make sure you escaped."

"So THAT was it!" Morgana laughed.

"Hey. I would have done the same for a simple soldier."

"I know," she said, becoming serious once more.

Then, she glanced to him again; he felt ridiculous. It was probably the clumsy way he was scrubbing the floor with their pitiful means that made her amusement return.

She wasn't to be trusted, he thought. At all. Too much mystery surrounded her persona and she had the kind of wit that people with multiple allegiances possessed. She looked ready to shift and adapt to anything.

Carth caught himself in time and his eyes returned to the hard work of erasing stains from the floor, before Morgana could notice his insistent stare.

* * *

"Admiral Karath," Darth Bandon called calmly, as he strode into the man's own private quarter, unannounced, without bothering to make it foreknown he was coming. 

He found the man, Admiral of the Sith fleet, sitting at his desk and staring intensely at something that was displayed on the incorporated terminal's monitor. As soon as the Dark Jedi stepped in, though, Saul Karath stood up, perfectly formal and controlled; he was as easy to impress as any other officer, but Bandon found it amusing that he tried to hide his unease, unlike the rest. Malak seemed to think the discipline was preferable to the 'sniveling of cowards', as he called the sheepish attitude, but personally Bandon liked the latter more, because it accentuated his authority in a strange way.

"Yes, My Lord Bandon?" the Admiral inquired politely, when the Sith seated himself on the chair opposite the one he had been occupying only moments before.

Malak's apprentice frowned, staring out at nothing in particular as his hands came together in his lap and the fingers from both interlocked; he waited for the man to get the hint that he should sit back down and not make him look up. If he didn't, which Bandon wished to happen, practicing dark Force powers always came in handy. Unfortunately, Saul Karath had served Revan and Malak for long enough to be well aware of the whims of Dark Jedi and he was quick to occupy his chair again.

The Admiral wasn't in any physical way imposing; he presented himself as a rather short figure, whose musculature had long faded into oblivion through the years of inaction behind an officer's desk. He was skinny now and had a long face with prominent cheekbones and sharp features; wrinkles had already begun to build into different patterns in some areas and his hair had been graying intensively in the last months. To do more than just compensate for this deficiency, he had a certain stiff and ungraceful, strictly-business way of moving about when he was giving orders and his eyes could adjust well enough to pierce through the most defiant recruit's heart. Beside that, he had proven himself a good tactician and a seasoned strategist, more than capable of helping in the elaboration of a battle plan.

Many looked well upon the Admiral, Malak himself included, though the Dark Lord didn't bear any respect to the man, as the other Sith did, but merely saw him as his most efficient pawn. Bandon was the proverbial exception that came to prove a rule; all he saw when he looked upon Saul Karath was an aging man, who had been worn out beyond the point where he could even realize how tired and drained he was.

"I have brought you a new recruit," Bandon decided to finally explain his reason for coming. "He is to be my eyes and ears among the troopers."

"By all means," the Admiral smiled briefly, futilely trying to conceal a displeasure that the Sith could sense all too well. "Where is he?"

One of Bandon's hands left the other and was brought up in midair; the Dark Jedi snapped his fingers briefly, causing a sound that was oddly echoed by the walls in the grave-like silence of Saul Karath's quarters. The effect did not delay in appearing – a man stepped in, bowing carefully when Bandon's eyes flashed him a short scrutinizing glance. He wore the regular armor of a Sith trooper, all except for the headpiece; he was tall, with slightly tanned skin, blond-haired and marked by two symmetric scars, one on each of his cheeks, both of obviously recent origins.

"I exist to serve you, My Lord," he told the Dark Jedi, in a mechanical fashion, then stopped a few steps away, patiently waiting for new instructions.

Bandon knew what Saul Karath thought at that moment, when he was unable to conceal a small shudder – this particular soldier, in whom he had recognized an ex-prisoner, seemed to have been brain-washed. Malak's plan was a promising draft.


	6. Tricks

**Author's Note: **_All right, it looks like I did make some modifications in the end, or at least I'm about to. It still won't really change the plot, but it's a _major _addition, I would say._

_There's another note at the bottom, for after you've seen what it's about. I'll need a bit of advice from y'all so thanks in advance. And since I'm at it, one huge thanks also goes to the people that reviewed and messaged, or added to their favoritess and alerts; you guys are a real great support._

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**Tricks**

"It feels good to be out in the open again," Morgana remarked with a broad smile, as she inhaled the warm air of Taris.

Carth had followed her, though cautiously so, and they now found themselves on a large permacrete platform, in a wide open space between the apartment complex they had just left and another group of buildings, all part of the same enormous sky-scraper ensemble. The sky, of a neat azure, seemed to be so close, especially when one looked at the void-like gap present where the platform ended. There wasn't much in the way of a fence or any other means to prevent accidents – one could easily drop away to their certain death, though it was more likely to get hit by a vehicle than to actually reach the bottom.

Taris was said to rival Coruscant itself in grandeur, but it had a sense of peace and tranquility that the Republic's capital lacked, even if the general agitation seemed to be the same. Besides, the sun shone brightly and draped the tops in mild orange and gold, while Coruscant's sky was mostly clouded and gray. All in all, Taris had a certain sense of freedom to offer those who walked upon it at such heights; it was almost like a dream-world.

Except...

"The unease – do you feel it too?" Morgana asked, oblivious to what Carth's reply to her first remark had been.

"I tried to tell you, but you weren't listening," he sounded somewhat reproachful. "The whole planet is under quarantine. The Sith have had it blockaded; no ships can land or take-off and they've imposed several on-world restrictions."

Morgana acknowledged that this time, but silently, as she looked at the nearest surroundings. Aside from a few citizens strolling pleasantly and a swoop bike displayed behind a force field, for all to view but none to touch, she could also see protocol droids roaming about. She pointed to the closest one discreetly.

"My electronic journal isn't just for fun," she made her new idea known. "Let's see if that thing will give us a schematic of the area... unless you'd like to get lost."

"Great logic; not to mention I've scouted the area already," Carth mumbled sarcastically, as he followed in her pursuit of a rather quick protocol droid who was just walking away.

Overall, they undoubtedly looked ridiculous, both humans traipsing behind the droid, until Morgana had the not-quite-brilliant idea to whistle behind it, loudly and in a totally unwomanly fashion. The target of so much attention finally stopped in its tracks and turned around stiffly, both of its arms hanging in front of it in that peculiar manner characteristic to all units of the kind. Morgana and Carth halted a couple of steps away from it, staring at the wide-eyed face, whose surface layer of alloy had already begun to rust off.

"Greetings and good day," the artificial inexpressive voice began, while the head still turned to the left and right some bare inches, attempting to adjust the angle for the best sight. "I trust you are aware that the emittence of loud noises may disturb--"

Not listening to the rest of the description depicting the grand cataclysm her whistling had brought to life, Morgana half-turned around and helped herself to Carth's blaster. The soldier flinched, but then controlled himself and allowed her to take it, and it was a mere matter of seconds before the weapon was pointed at the droid's head. As she had expected, the unit was programmed to detect threats and it reacted accordingly.

"Is there something I can do to serve you?" it asked amiably.

"Start by telling me how to get off this planet," Morgana commanded.

Behind her, Carth sighed. "I told you," he snapped. "Taris is under _quarantine_."

"The Sith are allowing no one to arrive or leave," the droid felt the need to complete. "Except on official Sith business."

"Do I really look that stupid?" Morgana asked, a bit frustrated, while lowering the blaster and resignedly handing it back to Carth. "Let me reformulate. What would I need in order to be allowed a departure?"

"I am afraid I may not provide that information," the protocol droid excused itself.

"But you _have_ it?" Morgana insisted. Most often, obtaining something from a machine depended on solely the ability to find a slightly altered formulation of the same issue, which its programmer had forgotten to restrict. There always was one.

"No," the droid shook its head in a most comical rigid way. "But I could obtain it by accessing the central intelligence. However, I would not be permitted to give--"

That was it. Morgana didn't listen to the rest of its rant, but merely whipped around and got out of the way. After looking about and making sure no one was purposefully looking, she eyed Carth with a serious frown.

"Shoot it," she demanded coolly. "In the _chest_."

"But..." the soldier began to protest.

"Shoot it!" she urged, not allowing him to continue.

Reluctantly, Carth aimed the blaster at the confused protocol droid, who was trying to process the unexpected turn of events and to adapt with a proper behavior for the new situation. Pulling the trigger, the soldier released a short flash of red at the exact center of its chest, which caused the droid's members to flail about for a second, before it crumbled to the ground.

By that time, Morgana had already drawn her vibrosword and she feinted forward for a simple swing, detaching the head from the rest in mid-fall. It rolled over to her feet, from where she picked it up and held it to Carth, sparkles still crackling where the wiring had been severed.

"I want you to take this back to the apartment," she instructed, as if nothing at all had happened. "Later, I can extract our map from it, too, but the real reason I want it is because I might be able to access the central intelligence myself. ... Well, if I use the data in this thing's memory core correctly."

"Right," Carth didn't seem convinced when he snapped the blaster back in its place and relieved her of the droid's head. "You know; not that I'm purposefully being confrontational, but... shouldn't we be keeping a low profile?"

"No pain, no gain," she replied with an apologetic shrug, putting away the vibrosword. "Yes, we've taken a risk here – but think of the benefits, if it works."

"I know, and your intelligence is noted," he sighed, quite exasperated. "Just don't do any more things like this; alright?"

"Deal," she promised, with a light wink. "Meet me outside the cantina; signs say it's over there." She pointed to a wall a bit further away, which harbored an ensemble of glowing markers showing the location of a shop and one such cantina. "I'll have a surprise for you... I think."

"Not another disturbance, I hope," he pleaded, but began to head off nonetheless, before the wrong people saw him standing there with the droid's head in hand.

"Don't worry," the woman chuckled behind him. "I'm done; for now."

* * *

The day had begun fabulously, with three job offers for Thress Winstar, a rather notorious smuggler and gambler known to most as simply Winstar. It made the Lower City's battered walls look better than any luxurious villa, to know that your skills were well sought after; at least it did for him. But then again, he usually was a very cheerful person, who felt nearly exalted every time things went good and tried to crack jokes when they didn't. 

Still, the prospect of working with the Exchange – in secret, no less – was quite the thing for one to look forward to those days. It usually meant you were considered worth the time and the money of pretty important people, whose authority around the place was very strong, though not directly expressed by any.

At the moment, Thress was leaning against a wall in Javyar's Cantina and waiting for a contact the Exchange had said they would send. To pass the time, he had resorted to his favorite activity while in public: studying those around him, to learn more about the various expressions and gestures that denoted a certain mood for the different species. In time, Winstar had grown to be quite good with determining and anticipating their reactions. Of course, the Force still helped also, but he had lost his touch with most of that by preferring other methods.

Given his position, he had a clear view of the lobby, where the pazaak players sat around the table and swapped stories and jokes while dabbling in their addictive pastime. Thress had eyed one of them a bit earlier and easily identified him as a cheater, who was taking advantage of the others' slight degree of inebriation and winning game after game.

That was how he saw the woman right the moment she entered and, by the way she was looking around in that strictly-business fashion, he guessed her to be his contact immediately. Instead of rushing in to greet her, the man preferred to hold his ground and let her spot him, while giving himself a chance to study her.

She was quite young, but looked well aware of what she was doing and the way her eyes flashed from one person to the next warned against messing with her. Thress had to admit that, although she was dressed in that ideal way which made a woman attention-grabbing, she possessed enough discreet elegance not to look like a tramp, or worse. He easily found himself looking at the bared portions of heavily tanned skin and getting those thoughts that men sometimes have. The lines of that body and the way she walked were simply delicious. But, most of all, he was pleased to look upon her long and thick black hair. _That_ was going to make his plan so much easier.

"Hey, pretty-face," he said, rather teasingly and doing his best to act like a jerk, as soon as she stopped right in front of him. He flicked his wrist in an exquisitely lazy fashion, for a greeting, and took his time with pulling away from the wall.

"Cut the crap," the woman retorted icily. "And come along, I don't have all day for you."

"Ho about all night, hmm?" he continued the advance with a small wink. As he brushed past her, he stopped to give her a warm smile and his hand rose to her cheek, stroking soft fingertips across it and then drifting off through the same hair he had been so satisfied to see.

She slapped the hand off, albeit with some delay, and rolled her eyes with a great deal of unmasked contempt. "Now that you've seen I'm not interested in you, can we be off?"

"Sure," Thress replied, shoving his hands in his pockets and offering an indifferent half-shrug. _Yeah, you go on thinking_ I _have any interest in you,_ he thought to himself.

As they went past the pazaak table, he simply couldn't keep from walking like he owned the place and tapping the cheater on the shoulder.

"Hey, friend," he said, making sure the next tap shook the man's hand enough for the two cards he had hidden in his sleeve to fall out. "Must be difficult to play, with that little discomfort there, huh?"

Thress didn't much care for the commotion he had created, and departed glamorously, with the air of a hero who had just defeated the galaxy's greatest villain ever. From the corner of his eye, he saw the Exchange woman shake her head disapprovingly and resume her way to the exit as well.

"I'm not really your contact," she informed him as soon as they were out. "At least not your only one."

"No, you work in secret, like I'm about to do," he didn't seem surprised at all and flashed a charming smile when she glared back at him questioningly. "Seen you with the bounty hunters," he explained. "I guess it's as good a cover as any."

"Impressive," she replied, with the same impassiveness. "By the way; the name's Loraya."

She most likely knew his name, so Thress didn't bother to give it and just nodded his acknowledgment. He needed to review his plan, just in case anything would go wrong, so he followed her in silence toward the nearest apartment complex. Apparently, his actual contact from the Exchange had rented a bit of private space for the meeting. One more thing to demonstrate they needed him for something rather important... for which the pay would be great, no doubt.

When they arrived, a tall black man wearing a worn combat suit was already waiting for them. The first thing he did was to come out into the corridor and ensure no one had followed the two, even if it was unlikely. The man was rigorous and wanted to make sure.

"Well, this is new," Thress remarked. "Lately, Canderous has been doing the hiring."

"That's not relevant," the black man replied haughtily, keeping his back straight. "I will be dealing with this case; call me Dacen."

"Got that," Thress confirmed. "Well, what should I do, then, and how many credits are we talking about? You know – the terms."

"We'll see in a minute," the other replied.

Thress tried to look nonchalant when Dacen invited Loraya inside the apartment with a small gesture and closed the door, inserting the code that would lock it, too. It seemed like the soon-to-be-hireling's next move was to simply scratch an itch behind his ear. In fact, he was activating the small comlink implanted there, whose other end – a fact that made him proud – was a small microphone currently resting in Loraya's hair. That was why he had been thrilled to see a woman coming to fetch him. Otherwise, the feat of slipping the microphone up the sleeve of a man while shaking hands would have given Winstar quite the hassle.

"What is it?" he heard the woman clearly when she spoke, with even the concern in her tone evident.

"Of all people you and Jess could have found..." Dacen sounded a bit more distant, as was natural, aside from highly critical. "Winstar? I know he's good at not getting caught, but--"

Loraya laughed lightly. "He's reliable, if the pay suits him... and it will."

Dacen sighed. "Very well. I'll take the chances."

Thress barely had time to turn the comlink back off and wipe the sly, satisfied smirk from his lips before the two came back out. He was unceremoniously handed a datapad, which he pocketed unblinkingly.

"All you need to know is on that," Dacen assured him, before gesturing that Thress should be following Loraya, who had already begun to depart. "You get to work with her, so stick close."

Winstar shrugged, not bothering to reply with words, and turned around, starting off behind the woman. He caught up with her at about the same time she reached the complex's exit and went out into the Lower City's tunnel they had previously come from. They were just in time to see a procession of Vulkars arrogantly marching along, led by no other than a stout-and-pretentious-looking Brejik himself. Apparently, all of them were needed to escort a single cage, holding a scantily dressed woman, who looked like...

"Bastila?" Thress wondered disbelievingly, staring out, as wide-eyed as an overly curious kid. "Well, gotta admit she's never looked better than that. Neural restraint included."

"Ah. Someone you know, I take it?" Loraya snickered, unable to contain the stingy irony.

"Yeah," Winstar replied, with yet another shrug. "And I'd sure like to know how she got to be here."

"She was in one of the crashed escape pods the Vulkars scavenged," the woman explained, without caring much about Bastila's fate. "I thought someone with your relations would have known."

Thress gritted his teeth and allowed the tease to go past him; he had more important things to concentrate on. "They're most likely gonna sell her as a slave," he reasoned. "I _have_ to do something."

If he had waited, he would have heard Loraya's denial of his conclusions, but he didn't and bolted right for the Vulkar procession, ridiculously shouting after them. He wasn't exactly the thing an entire band would be afraid of. At first, they ignored him, but he insisted in his pursue and finally Brejik signaled for his men to stop, then turned to face Thress, pointing a blaster at him at the same time.

"What do you want, Winstar?" he barked. "I told you to stay _out __of my way_."

"Love you too, Brejik," Thress replied, smirking and trying his best not to look intimidated. "Really, it saddens me to see you're not in a good mood, but... you should let that woman go."

Laughter erupted all around and several Vulkars readied their shock sticks and vibroblades, waiting for a sign. Brejik didn't give any, though.

"Before I shoot you," the Vulkar leader continued. "Amuse me – why would I set her free, exactly?"

"Dunno," Thress shrugged, hands back in his pockets in a shove. "Maybe because I'm a _very_ powerful Jedi also?"

Looking around, he could see the puzzled expressions on their faces. _Really,_ he thought immediately after. _Whoever taught me to lie like this should be showered in credits._

"You don't expect us to believe that," one of the citizens who had gathered there to watch the scene snorted. "The entire Lower City knows who you are!"

_Okay, maybe I can save the credits._

"Hey, Winstar," taunted a Vulkar from his right. "I'm scared!"

"Yeah, trembling!" guffawed another.

"No, really. I _was_ a Jedi." Well, at least that wasn't a lie.

Laughter roared around yet again, just before Brejik got tired of the charade and simply shot at Winstar with amazing precision. Thress was hit in full, jerked backwards suddenly, then fell to the ground, coming to lie still, sprawled on his back.

When the Vulkar procession was gone, Loraya approached, though she had little doubt he was dead. Brejik was known for his skills with a blaster and he had benefited from a clear path and enough time to calculate his moves. Therefore, she was surprised when Winstar groaned and pulled himself to his feet, rubbing the back of his head and running his mouth freely about Brejik's family members and body parts, aside from a collection of various 'qualities' the Vulkar leader apparently possessed.

"How did you survive that?" the woman asked disbelievingly.

Thress eyed her shortly, still trying to clear his head. He had been expecting the shot from the very start and had, for the conversation's duration, been trying to remember how to call upon the Force and create one of those invisible energy shields. He wasn't exactly sure he had gotten it right when Brejik shot, and the mental plea turned into a panicked, instinctual imploration when, in one dilated second, he saw the particle beam hit him square in the chest and actually start frying his tunic. Luckily, he had realized he wasn't feeling any pain at all, so he had managed to collapse and give a yelp, looking pretty much like someone who had just died.

"Thanks for the concern, m'dear," he turned to face her, resorting to the same caress of her cheek and stroke of her hair as when they had first met, some minutes earlier. Then, his hands slipped in his pockets again, apparently because he liked to keep them there.

She glared, but permitted him to have his way, still waiting for her answer. Instead of giving it, Thress looked down, inspecting the holes with scorched margins that his tunic now presented.

"Eh, don't ask," he finally said.

"You really were a Jedi," she realized by herself; he shrugged, so she shook her head and continued. "And the woman is a Jedi also, or so I've heard. Was she someone you... err... cared for?"

"Uhh... no, actually," Winstar chuckled. "We can't stand each other. But I still wouldn't wanna see her sold as a slave."

"Oh," Loraya seemed to remember. "I tried to tell you – that's not where they were taking her."

"Then where?" Thress asked, an eyebrow raised inquiringly.

"They've kept her in the Vulkar base for a while, but Brejik doesn't trust his own men around her," Loraya explained, not without amusement. "Thinks they'll betray him, like he did Gadon, maybe. He'll take your Jedi friend somewhere they can't reach her – probably his own residence." She took a small break, to contemplate something. "I'd sure like to see the fool who'd try to break in there."

"Why would it be that difficult?" Thress seemed pretty interested.

"Oh, no," Loraya warned him, guessing his intentions. "Brejik has defense turrets and sensors all around the place!"

Thress seemed to consider that for a moment. "I need a stealth field generator," was his only conclusion.

"Listen, there's another way," the woman tried to get that out of his head. "Brejik has offered her as his share of the prize in the next important swoop race."

"That's..." Thresh calculated rapidly. "In three days. I can try that if I fail the house-breaking."

"You mean if you survive," Loraya muttered. "Well, don't count on me. Go and get yourself killed if you like... but first we have a job to do. Let's go."

* * *

Morgana entered the shop, marked the _Equipment Emporium_ by the fancy sign on the wall, as soon as the door glided open for her. She found herself in what looked to have once been a roomy warehouse, which now contained different types of stands where a collection of items, ranging from weapons and armor to various tools and small vehicle parts, was exposed. In the middle, a heavily tanned well-dressed woman with very short hair stood behind a desk, just selling a vibro double-blade to a man. 

Morgana looked around, waiting for the other client to leave; oddly enough, when he did so, he stared at her intently, rubbing his chin in a thoughtful manner. Before the woman could ask anything, though, he continued on and left, so she approached the cheerful-looking shopkeeper. She saluted her with a small nod and a polite half-smile.

The woman's face lit up for a moment and she nearly grinned, while her odd gray eyes bore into Morgana's. "Why, hello there," she began, with a strong accent and a welcoming tone. "I haven't seen you in my shop before... Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Kebla Yurt. Welcome to the _Equipment Emporium_."

"Thanks," Morgana replied. "I'm Morgana Ondare. Eh... say, have you got any pocket translators?"

"Oh, you mean a P.U.T.," Kebla Yurt pretended not to have noticed the more-than-just-informal language. "Of course – it costs fifty credits. And, just so you know, the prices on the items are final - no bargaining here. This isn't a swap meet, ok? I only deal in top notch stuff.

"Here's the credits," Morgana held out a hand with the respective chip representing the mentioned sum, all while needing to do her best in order not to snap at the infuriating shopkeeper.

A couple of minutes later, she was exiting the shop to find Carth outside, looking for her. He seemed frustrated that she had chosen to disappear, though she had been the one to set the meeting point there, but he didn't say a thing, which served only to install an awkward silence between them. Devoid of anything else to do, the woman resorted to offering the translator wordlessly.

"Well, I was expecting more trouble, but not this," Carth remarked, taking the object and studying it a little, trying to see how it worked.

"Here's the earpiece," Morgana added, handing over a much smaller object. "I'm not sure how many languages are in there as of yet, but I'll pro'lly be able to install more from the protocol droid's head."

"Thanks," Carth said, as he began to work on installing the translator on himself.

He stopped for a moment, when attaching the earpiece, while Morgana went into the cantina by herself. She didn't have enough time to see the suspicious-looking man that turned the corner right behind them, obviously following. But Carth did see him, though he tried to look like he hadn't and hurried to catch up with the woman.

* * *

**Author's Note:** _Well, it's pretty obvious Thress is going to be tagging along with the party and going through the whole thing with them. My problem is whether I should take Loraya as well. She'd give me even more opportunities to create new situations, but on the other hand, the thing may get too loaded with so many characters. So let it be the reader's choice. Say what you'd like._

_By the way, for insight into the next chapter, we'll get to see what wonderful 'adventures' Morgana and Carth will stumble upon in the cantina. Quite the headache... at least for one of them. Also, we'll get some more of Thress and Loraya._


	7. Tension

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**Tension**

It turned out the cantina wasn't as small as it had seemed from the outside. The structure's top was actually a restricted area, without doubt a storage, while the actual place could be accessed by an elevator with a short route downwards, to where the building grew in diameter. There were no windows and little in the way of lighting, with the exception of the entrance lobby, which also hosted a large pazaak table. From there, one could enter a large circular room, where shadow and light from the smaller chambers around waged a constant battle and shifted incessantly on the floor and walls.

The very middle of that was occupied by the large durasteel pylon which traversed every floor of the skyscraper, ensuring its solid fix to the ground. Tables and chairs had been arranged in lines on both sides, in such a way that a corridor would remain free between them, for people to walk through. Everything was firmly nailed to the floor, to prevent accidents with any who drank too much and felt the need to manifest by lifting or throwing chairs and tables.

The entire complex had three waitresses, who were so bogged down with work that they barely had a moment to catch their breath. And with all that, they still weren't spared the occasional pinching, insults and other injustices. Verily, the Sith Trooper posted outside was beginning to fade at the sight of all that, from the exaggeration Morgana had categorized him as, into the state of too little protection. She realized, though, that even if it looked extraordinarily bad, the place was, in fact, more civil than most cantinas. The influx of cretins was simply inevitable, due to the large population count of Taris; infallibly, the good people would end up keeping away from the places everyone was allowed in.

"I guess it's not that bad," the woman finally concluded, rather amused at how her imagination had turned a simple displeasure into a horror, by only paying attention to the scene's worst aspects.

It was then, when no reply came, that she realized she had somehow managed to leave Carth behind. Turning around, she nearly crashed right into a man who was standing in the entryway to the music room. At the other end, three Biths were playing on stage, behind the cantina's couple of Twi'lek dancers.

"Well, I'm sorry," Morgana spoke, loud enough to make herself heard through all the noise. Still, she did not hide her reproach toward his choice to just stand there, pretty much blocking the way.

"Hmm..." the man checked her out thoroughly. "I see from your exotic appearance that you are not from Taris originally."

Morgana nodded, confirming, then stepped aside to let one of the waitresses pass by her with a tray in hand, only to see her squeeze past the man with difficulty; he didn't bother to make any kind of room.

"My name's Jergan," he continued cheerfully, flashing a broad grin Morgana's way, in a manner far too friendly for the woman's liking.

"Morgana Ondare," she replied mechanically, hoping he'd just go away.

"What do you think of our local music?" words continued to stream out of Jergan's mouth. "The band is quite good, wouldn't you agree? They're on the verge of intergalactic stardom, you know."

The woman's first impulse was to signal for him to move away, but on a second thought she didn't and watched as a considerably taller man who wanted to come out from the music room grabbed Jergan by the shoulder. Young and not completely unattractive, Morgana noticed, as she amusedly followed the new figure's move to shove the other man out of his way.

"Run your scams in a corner, if you must," were the words that accompanied the actions, before the man turned to Morgana."He was going to say you could meet the band if you paid him twenty credits. Then, he--"

"--would have vanished with it," the woman finished for herself, with a quite intentionally charming chuckle. "Well, thanks for the intervention."

"You're welcome," he nodded politely. "But I must be off. They don't give us Sith from the military base much time off."

"You're from the military base?" Morgana had to make a huge effort in order to appear casual instead of how very interested she really was. "I mean... I'm surprised; you're dressed like a civilian."

"Eh," he sighed. "I'm off duty right now, so I'm not in uniform. But that's about to change real soon. Anyway, the name's Yun Genda; I heard yours earlier – Morgana, right?"

"Pleased to meet you," the woman smiled.

"I'm actually a little surprised you're still talking to me," he admitted. "Most of the people here on Taris can't stand us Sith."

"But you're just trying to protect them, right? Doing your job," Morgana threw out a subtle bait, a plan already beginning to form in her mind. "Why would anyone hold that against you?" If she could befriend this guy, there were so many things he would undoubtedly be able to tell her.

"I don't know," Yun muttered in reply, his displeasure obvious. "It's like everyone here is in a permanent bad mood. Don't they know they have to make the best of things?"

Well, Morgana had to actually agree to that. The Sith weren't exactly the kindest rulers and often oppressed the people, but the locals were being stupid by opposing them. They would have been better off trying to adapt instead of clinging doggedly to the pretense of a freedom they no longer had. Reality needed to be acknowledged, after all, and one could either go along with it or suffer the consequences.

"If only everyone had an attitude as practical as yours," she mused.

"Exactly!" the man's ego seemed to catch on to that idea. "It's all about attitude! I didn't ask to be assigned to this backwater planet, but I try to make the best of it."

Morgana would have spurred the conversation on, but Carth showed up at her side right then, giving Yun a highly apprehensive glance.

"Good to see you've made some friends," the soldier remarked to Morgana, not leaving out the sarcasm. "But I need to borrow you for a moment; it's important."

The next smile was probably the dumbest ever; Morgana was grateful that she couldn't see herself at that moment. She leaned on Carth casually, poking him in the ribs and pretty much trying to look like she had known him for her entire life.

"My brother, you know," she explained conversationally. "Carth, this is Yun."

"Step-brother, actually," Carth was luckily quick to play her game, correcting her and thus elucidating the mystery of why such a close relative of his could have black hair and blue eyes. "Anyway, nice to meet you."

Yun seemed to buy that well enough and Morgana pulled away from Carth, allowing the two men to shake hands.

"Well, I have to go," the Sith excused himself afterwards. "I've got a shift at the military base. But some of us Junior Sith officers are having a party tonight, to blow off some steam." He looked to Morgana, pleadingly. "I'd really like to see you again – why don't you drop by?"

"Sure," she tried to seem as eager as possible. "Where is it?"

"Just go to the North Apartment Complex and then follow the music," Yun suggested the easiest way.

"I'll be there," Morgana promised, with an acknowledging nod.

"Great!" the Sith beamed, then began to depart. "We're starting as soon as it gets dark. Don't be late."

"Don't you worry, I won't," the woman mumbled to herself when Yun had gone far enough, then she prodded Carth conspiratorially. "Let's go find a table." However, none of them moved, when she noticed the critical expression on his face and her good mood fled in an instant. "What?"

"Someone has been following us," he made it known reproachfully. "And as if that's not enough, here you are, befriending Sith officers!"

"What's it to you, eh?" she defied, glaring. "Where is this stalker you claim we've picked up?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted, rather worriedly. "I lost him; he probably took the other elevator, to the storage."

"Uh-huh."

They continued to exchange occasional glares, but refrained from trading any more jabs as they searched for a table. Finally, they found one in the same room the actual bar was in; it was perfect – recluse and half-hidden in the shadows of a corner. The both of them took their seats and it wasn't long before one of the waitresses noticed and stopped by.

"What would you like?" she asked politely. "We have a wide selection, but I'm afraid we're out of menus for you to look at."

"The Tarisian ale is a must," Morgana insisted, glaring over to kill Carth's protest before it even began. "And to eat... well, whatever is today's featured dish."

"Are you sure?" the waitress asked, furrowing a brow. "It's Wookiee food."

"Yeah, we're sure," Morgana replied, with that kind of "oh well" shrug.

The waitress gave her a bit of an odd look and then turned around to pass on the order. Morgana was left with Carth, who was staring at her as if she had just been declared the last living member of a specie or another.

"Wookiee food?" the soldier finally questioned her with a cocked eyebrow.

"Mhm," she nodded cheerfully. "_They_ eat that, so it can't be that bad, right?"

"You don't sound too convinced," Carth remarked teasingly.

"I'm not," she admitted, shifting into a more comfortable position and trying to look innocent or something to that effect.

The two of them remained silent for the next few moments, waging a war of gazes, almost as if they were two enemies forced to work together. After all, they both realized, they knew next to nothing about each other; one could easily stab the other in the back. And Morgana knew that, with her most recent move, she had given Carth an extra reason to be wary.

"How do we get to the Undercity?" she asked, all traces of amusement vanishing from her countenance.

"There's an elevator that would take us to the Lower City and then we'd see," Carth replied. "But the access is restricted with a code and there was a Sith trooper guarding it when I checked."

"At least now I know what I need to obtain from Yun," Morgana didn't realize she was wording out her thoughts.

Carth tensed, shifted uncomfortably and looked away; his struggle not to express aversion was evident.

"Why do you hate the Sith so much?" the woman asked gently, trying to lock eye contact again. She didn't sound like the usual Morgana at all right then, with her face clouded in thought, mirroring the assortment of ideas inside her head. She was far calmer and actually looked like she cared and would be capable of treating a serious matter appropriately.

Carth didn't fail to notice all that and he looked back at her almost against his will, driven by his curiosity. "It's... complicated," he said, shaking his head lightly. "I've been a star-pilot for the Republic for years. I've seen more than my share of wars... I fought in the Mandalorian Wars before all this started." He stopped, perhaps expecting an interruption, but Morgana allowed him to take as much time as needed before he continued. "It's just... with all that, I've never experienced anything like these Sith animals can unleash. Not even the Mandalorians were _that_ senseless."

"The Sith conduct themselves in a different way, that's true," Morgana admitted amiably, though it was obvious she would contradict him in part. "But who are we to set the standards and declare that they are wrong? They are just as entitled as we are to do what they think best."

"You can't seriously mean that," Carth protested, staring at her in disbelief.

"I do," Morgana replied, in a calm, level-headed fashion. "The only reason I trust the Republic is because the Jedi do. And I trust the Jedi."

"But..." the soldier simply couldn't bring himself to accept that. "You've seen the chaos, the destruction... all the deaths Revan and Malak caused!"

Morgana shrugged apologetically. "To be honest with you, I think we'd be better off if Revan had conquered the Republic."

"That's senseless," Carth contradicted determinedly. "I mean, look at the people here on Taris; on other worlds. Is it the Sith they want?"

"Oh," the woman snorted, quirking an eyebrow. "Honestly, the Republic is no better. What do you think would happen if the people _did_ want the Sith? Would all those rich lazy bastards from the Core Worlds step down, pat Malak on the shoulder and say 'Yup. It's you they want. Good luck.'?"

"Probably not," Carth admitted. "But that doesn't change the Sith's limitless cruelty, nor the galaxy's fear of them."

"I guess you have a point there," Morgana conceded, eyeing the waitress who was just returning with a loaded tray.

Methodically, the serving girl deposited a mug of ale in front of each of her two customers; two plates followed immediately, containing what looked like a ball of tissue dipped in a greasy sauce.

"Uhh... what dish is this, exactly?" Carth inquired, giving the food an odd look.

"Won-won," explained the waitress, as she began to withdraw. "I'll be back later, to bring your check."

Carth and Morgana exchanged a troubled glance; the woman was the first to grab her fork from the plate's edge and poke at the won-won with it in an intentionally comical fashion.

"Well, at least it's not alive," she remarked sarcastically, daring to cut off a small piece and bring it to her mouth.

She spat it out and back on the plate without even trying to chew it, at the same time as Carth, who had reluctantly mirrored her moves.

"This thing..." she began, taking a break for a good swig of ale. "Tastes like a granite slug."

"And you would know that because...?" Carth amusedly inquired.

"Uhh... let's just say there are times you get desperate enough to try and eat one."

"I guess," the soldier continued to tease. "Well, what now?"

"I have no idea," Morgana shrugged. "But I'm _not_ eating this."

He looked at her in an oddly studious way, keeping silent for a few moments, as something seemed to weigh on his mind. "Can I ask you something?" he surprised the woman completely.

"Hmm..." Morgana pondered. "Only if I get to ask a question in return."

"It's a deal," he agreed, then took a small break to formulate his inquiry mentally before wording it out. "Why Revan? Revan is dead; why not Malak?"

The woman's face clouded again, with a frown heaving above her suddenly darkened eyes. "Because... Revan was a true leader, one who set the example in person, from the middle of things, instead of sitting back and giving directions, like all the Senators do." For a moment, she almost looked as if she would slip away into a dream, but she recomposed herself quickly. "I guess that's just the Jedi way, of course. But Revan also was a powerful, inspiring presence; Malak is no such thing. You've seen how he wages war – he relies on numbers, fear and crude demonstrations of force. Everything is straight-forward; no more brilliance, no more great tactics, like the ones Revan had in store."

"Well spoken," Carth admitted, albeit with difficulty. "And you're... right. Revan was the genius that Malak will never be, but their purpose has always been the same. Now, what was it you wanted to ask?"

"It's obvious that your hatred of the Sith has other, more personal roots," Morgana treaded carefully, poking her fork at the won-won. "What happened?"

"I was hoping you wouldn't ask that," Carth sighed with resignation. "My home world was one of the first to fall to Revan's... _Malak's_ fleet. The Sith bombed it into submission, and there wasn't a damn thing our Republic forces could do to stop them!" His eyes flashed briefly when he was done, as he undoubtedly recalled the scenes.

There was no way Morgana could bite the words back; they simply begged to be spoken. "You're talking as if it were a fault of yours. Like you failed somehow."

"It shouldn't be my fault," Carth snapped, obviously uncomfortable and trying to mask his insecurity behind righteous anger. "I did everything I could... I followed my orders and did my duty." He shook his head vehemently and then looked at her in a sharp manner; there was some odd sort of hope there, almost as if he was asking for her approval. "That shouldn't mean I failed them! I didn't!"

"Them?" Morgana asked. "You mean the people of your home world?" The very next moment, she wished she hadn't said that; she desperately sought for some way to fix things, but there was none.

Carth was visibly shaken. In a way, he looked like a man who had a confession to make and wanted to do so once and for all, while on the other hand it was obvious he wouldn't. "Yes," he replied hurriedly, only to change his mind the very next moment. "No... no, that's not what I mean. I mean... you've already asked more than your one question."

"And you don't trust me," Morgana added the first thing she could find to guide the conversation over to another subject.

"I'm sorry," the soldier began to recompose himself. "You probably mean well with your questions. I'm just not accustomed to talking about my past very much. At all, actually."

"And... you don't trust me," the woman insisted jokingly.

He raised an eyebrow. "You seem to bring that up a lot. _Are_ you to be trusted?"

They sat there wordlessly, facing each other, with none willing to be the one to back out; also, Morgana didn't want to answer that. Her sincerity would have only enhanced his paranoia, while lying that her goal wasn't solely her own safety didn't suit her personal moral code. She had always been open about what she thought and wanted. She never lied directly, but simply omitted to add things when it was convenient.

"I take it you won't be eating that?" the waitress broke the two out of their state.

Both gave a small start – none had seen her return to their able. They were quick to recall their calm, as much as it was still possible, and to confirm that the waitress could lift their plates.

Morgana stood up, stretching her back. "You order us something decent to eat," she told Carth. "I'm going to go look around." As she drifted past him, she slowed down to lean in and add a little more. "If you trust me enough to allow that, of course."

"Just... go," the soldier sighed and turned to look at the waitress, making the first palatable choice he could think of – Twi'lek food. "Do you have any rycrit stew?"

"No," the woman shook her head. "But we have roast gornt, if it will do."

Carth nodded his agreement and she departed, leaving him alone, to study the mug of ale in front of him, or something to that effect. Since the activity wasn't all that enticing, the soldier eventually found himself caught in a careful examination of his surroundings. Soon, his eyes fell upon a monitor he had failed to notice so far, installed on the wall nearby. It seemed as if someone had just turned it on because something was going to happen. A more attentive look identified the image as that of a circular arena with two combatants facing each other across it.

The first one was still relatively young and looked rough, like one who had gone through a lot, endangering his life on countless occasions, but still lived. The expression on his face, when the camera closed in and focused on it, was sheer determination and maybe an amount of cruelty.

"In this corner," the duel announcer's strong, charismatic voice, whose previous comments Carth had ignored, made itself heard. "I give you... Gerlon Two-Fingers."

As his name was spoken, the combatant raised a hand in the air and waved to the spectators watching on both sides, from behind strong permaplas panel-windows. They whistled and cheered for him, though many of them were, as Carth noticed, nudging each other and trading jokes. The duelist's right hand, the one he was waving at them, explained his name in full; it missed three of the five fingers a human was supposed to possess per limb.

Carth wondered how this man hoped to fight another with only his left hand usable. Still, he could sympathize with Gerlon, as he also hid his weakness behind a mask of strength, by doing things a broken man would never be able to accomplish. Just as the duelist, the soldier had a wound, though of a different nature, which weakened him, but he would not admit as much.

The doubt about Gerlon's chances to win only lasted until the camera switched to the face of his opponent, an aged, blading man, whose insecurity was clearly disclosed by everything he did. His smile was wry, his wave to the public shy and only half-complete; the crowd snickered way more than it applauded.

"And over here, looking to climb the ranks yet again..." even the announcer sounded highly ironic. "...Is the ever persistent Deadeye Duncan!"

Both duelists advanced further toward the center of the arena, to face each other across a significantly smaller ring traced on the floor. Gerlon was hard as a rock and moved with insistent determination, while Duncan shifted nervously and kept glancing to the public.

"I hope all your bets are down," the announcer commented, in a way that held the pretense of something spectacular, and he was accompanied by a drum roll. "Because we're ready to roll!"

That seemed to be what everyone was waiting for; the spectators ceased their rumor and agitation to watch the scene attentively, some sipping drinks or picking at light snacks, while the camera drifted away to offer a full view of the arena. The duelists started to draw their blasters of a perfectly synchronized common accord, Deadeye Duncan with an insecure right hand and Gerlon Two-Fingers with a rather clumsy left.

It didn't take long at all – the former didn't even draw properly and dropped his blaster to the ground. A proper duelist would have probably concentrated on dodging the laser beam when his opponent would shoot. Instead, Deadeye Duncan panicked, froze for a second, then tried to recover his weapon. The slightly amused and pretty slow Gerlon Two-Fingers had to fire at him just once, to hit him square in the shoulder. The aged man shuddered briefly on impact, drifting a bit backwards and collapsing to the floor on his side immediately afterwards.

Carth recognized the effects of a stun ray immediately; well, at least no lives were being wasted for this whole charade.

"Well, that was quick, wasn't it?" the announcer barely contained a chuckle. "And, to nobody's great surprise, Deadeye is down again." The crowd reacted with more laughter and conspiratorial elbowing of each other. "Don't worry, folks, he's just unconscious. As usual. Our medics will have him up and about in a bit. So, I give you the winner... _Gerlon Two-Fingers_!"

The view screen Carth had been watching everything on showed a last image of the public cheering and applauding as the camera swept above their heads unnoticed, while some were already moving to collect the winnings from their bets; then, it all faded away into the usual blue background.

The soldier was left to meditate on what he had seen. He found it rather demeaning for anyone to take pleasure in seeing others fight, albeit with stun weapons only. There had been enough wars and battles already, far more real than this useless display, for more than a lifetime; how could some people still be eager for more? How could anyone treat such crude activities, which should have only been performed when critically needed, as entertainment?

He pondered on that, grimacing to himself discreetly, for a while more, then concluded with a sigh and just dropped the matter into the land of resignation. Shortly afterwards, Morgana found her way back and reclaimed her seat across the table, beaming proudly with some accomplishment or another.

"You won't believe this," the woman began, leaning over the top of the table, supported by her elbows. "I have a great plan that could make us some credits... we're most likely gonna need them soon enough, you know."

Carth shrugged. "Work is easy to find; but let's hear it."

"We're going to participate in a dueling contest," Morgana started excitedly. "Well, the 'Mysterious Stranger' will. I'll find us a disguise good enough for both and we can take turns."

"You've got to be kidding," Carth berated her. "_We_ are not getting involved in anything remotely connected to that. Plus, we'd be cheating."

"All right," she said, throwing him an odd glance and smirking mischievously. "Let the woman fight; the helluva man you are."

"I'm guessing you won't give up on that idea?" the soldier sighed, his actual displeasure only partial, as he seemed to be quite enjoying the manipulation.

"No chance," she replied sweetly.

"You must be the most frustrating woman I've ever met," he remarked rather heatedly, managing to look pretty much exasperated.

"Doesn't look to me like you've met many," Morgana retorted coldly, halting his reply with a lazy gesture and locking a direct and bold eye contact. "You listen carefully – I'm _not_ an idiot."

"I never said you were," Carth replied, almost rolling his eyes.

"Then stop treating me like one," she demanded, as serious, by then, as one could ever get. "You really don't have to contradict me every time I come up with something."

"Agreed," Carth nodded, after a moment of thought. "If you promise to warn me before you do anything I might not like. I'm not one for surprises."

"I promise to preserve the monotony of your life, then," the woman teased, though in such a way that she made it clear she meant the serious part of it as well. Then, she returned to displaying the cheerful smile when she saw the waitress approaching with their new food.

It seemed dissimulation, deceit and role-playing were some of her best talents. All in all, she looked just as stable as the weather on a planet with way too many influencing factors.

* * *

"This is called a sound-dampening stealth unit," Thress explained, as he finished clasping the generator-belt around Loraya's waist. "It will be useful if the sensors can detect sounds and motion alike. The drawback is we'll have to hold hands or something, if we don't wanna lose each other."

"Understood," the woman replied, swaying a little and taking a couple of steps, in order to get used to the weight and feel of her new accessory. She then stopped and gave the man a reproachful look. "I still don't know why I've agreed to help you with this... suicide," she muttered, begrudgingly.

"It's because you like me?" he hazarded an ironic guess. In fact, he had tried about seven different persuasion techniques, including the Force-supported one; none had worked, but Loraya had finally grown tired of his insistent attempts and had half-heartedly agreed.

"I wouldn't count on that, _ex-_Jedi," the woman snapped, using the title, the first syllable in particular, as an insult of sorts. She then took a calming deep breath. "Why did you desert them, anyway?"

"Hey, that stung, you know?" he pretended to protest vehemently. "Stop using such big words, sister; I didn't _desert_; I just... left." He smiled blandly.

"No, seriously," the woman insisted. "Why?"

"It's a long story," Thress shrugged uncomfortably, looking away. "All you need to know is that I did what was best for all of us." He dismissed the subject with a hand-wave and turned back to her. "Look, I know it seems otherwise, but we'll have to keep out in the open. No crawling along walls or lurking in the corners. Alright?"

"Care to explain why?" Loraya inquired, as she watched him start climbing the short vertical staircase toward the trap door above their heads.

"The sensors are probably in those exact places," Thress said, as he reached the top, using only one hand to hold on, while the other fished for something in his pocket. He pulled out a security tunneler and began to meddle with the trap door's controls, for which he lacked the proper code. "If there are moisture or heat sensors as well, we might be screwed," he continued absently. "The generators can't fool those. Luckily, their range is limited."

"Well, that's comforting," Loraya snorted in a highly sarcastic fashion.

Finally, Thress managed to get the trap door to glide open and skidded through into the small chamber above. Kneeling on the floor on the gap's edge, he signaled for Loraya to follow; the woman climbed the stairs with the agility of a feline and pulled herself up beside him in no time. They both stood and looked around, using adjustable sight-enhancing contact lenses to pierce the darkness.

It looked like they were standing on some sort of shaft's bottom, whose overall surface was just large enough to contain the two of them and someone else. There was no apparent purpose for that room and it was marked by no particular features, except a slight inclination of the floor toward the trap door they had just come through, leading to the sewers.

"I'm not sure what this particular chamber's use is..." Thress mused, pointing to the right immediately after that. "But if I slice through this wall, we should get inside one of Brejik's storage rooms."

"Slice through the wall?" Loraya mocked him. "And how exactly are you planning to do that, oh, very intelligent one?"

He grinned, grabbing an object the woman had so far failed to notice hanging at his belt. "With this," he clarified, waving it in front of her. It was a lightsaber.

Admitting her defeat in that matter, Loraya watched as he activated his weapon, the blade's color a vibrant yellow. Then, he stabbed it at the wall progressively, slowly, waiting for part of the durasteel alloy to melt before he pierced further through, each time with a new fizzing sound. It turned out the wall wasn't really as thick as one would have thought, and the former Jedi began to draw the lines of their improvised door.

Loraya would have continued to watch, fascinated by the surreal display, had she not heard something else, closing in on them... from above. "Winstar," she hissed, stressing. "What in the galaxy is _that_?"

Thress stopped, pulling the lightsaber free and deactivating it; he didn't look too concerned, oblivious to the approaching rumor. He turned to face Loraya, just in time for the both of them to get soaked with an abundance of water and who-knew-what-else flooding down through the shaft. All that was apparently supposed to drain by means of the trap door, but instead of staying open, it responded to the remote control who was unaware of its current state by gliding shut. When the influx finally stopped, they were left standing in a knee-high puddle.

"Well, at least now we know what the room was for," Thress chuckled.

"Winstar," Loraya nearly snarled, trying to keep her voice low, as she stared at what appeared to be water crested by white foam, though it had the smell of several chemical substances mixed in together. "You are an idiot."

"Hey," the man excused himself. "Be glad it's just whatever they use to wash the dishes, and not... anything else."

"What a relief."

Winstar resorted to simply ignoring her reproach and held the lightsaber up again, with the intention of continuing his work on the wall. He pressed the button on the hilt's side – nothing happened, except a small crackling sound making itself heard.

"Uhh... short circuit," he noticed, trying to plaster an innocent smile to his lips.

"Terrific," Loraya commented.

"Well, I did carve out the door on three sides and a half," Thress noted.

Since it was the only available option, each of them propped a shoulder against the three-and-a-half-edged patch of wall and began to push assiduously. It offered far less resistance than they would have expected when it bent inwards, so they found themselves barging headfirst into the storage, unable to stop the effects of inertia, then crashing between the storage's cylinders and lockers. Luckily, they were intact and managed to pick themselves up soon enough.

They activated the stealth field generators wordlessly and one-handedly, while their free hands met, as per their previous agreement. Carefully, Thress sliced the door open and led the woman into the next room, a large basement by the looks of it. Judging by the elevator's position, it exited into the kitchen, which was bad. Whoever had washed the dishes, sentient or droid, could still be there.

They ventured anyway, ascending to the next floor, only to find the kitchen completely deserted and its door to the dining room open. The turrets there were active, their carbine-shaped heads turning slowly to the left and right, at regular intervals.

The two advanced carefully, with Thress often lagging behind to see if he could spot the sensors and maybe identify them. His searches were fruitless, which caused the already agitated Loraya to lose all semblance of patience and tug at his hand, almost causing him to stumble and lose his balance. Right then, two of the closest defense turrets executed abrupt turns toward them, then froze like that, looking as if they were about to shoot.

Time seemed to freeze on that moment; without thinking, Thress shoved the woman behind him and held still, shielding her and waiting to receive a shot that never came. It took them another slow second to realize that the turrets had simply been programmed to turn right then and everything was fine.

"Thank you," the woman dared to whisper, not without surprise. Then, realizing he couldn't hear her, she just gave his hand a light squeeze, genuinely grateful, before both of them moved on to the hallway.

There were even more turrets there, with their heads out of their boxes below the floor and just as active as the others, and three more doors. One of them was larger and indubitably thicker, which only marked it as the main entrance to the residence from the Lower City. Another was open and revealed a living room with a few monitors, a small table and some chairs. Except for two pairs of security droids posted near the monitors, no one was inside.

The last door had to lead into Brejik's fabled private bedroom, which was supposed to be loaded with sensors and cleverly concealed defense mechanisms. The Vulkar leader was rumored to keep all of his credits hidden somewhere in there, along with evidence of his illegal dealings and activities. It was said the Beks had made some unsuccessful attempts to steal those and the thieves had suffered the most painful and gruesome deaths, but no one knew for sure. Luckily, Thress and Loraya didn't need to actually go inside – they just had to take a look.

Only Thress could tell what he did and how exactly he toyed with the controls in such a way that the door silently cracked open only a little bit, enough for them both to peek in. They began to do so calmly, only to give simultaneous starts and pull back immediately. After a few moments of insecure hesitation, Thress risked another quick look, trying to avoid a certain direction.

Once he was sure Bastila really wasn't in there, he and Loraya began to carefully sneak back the same way they had gotten in there. They didn't bother to erase the signs of their passage, since there was no way to mend the gap in the storage's wall and their doing was going to be discovered anyway. No one could know who it had been, so they were safe.

The stealth field generators remained active until they were back in the flooded room, where Thress needed several minutes of assiduous work to get the now defective trap door to open again. Finally, after waiting for the water to drain out, they descended back into the sewers, where they paused to take deep breaths.

"Okay," Thress began to enumerate, raising a finger for each thing he counted. "We've looked everywhere, we got soaked with nearly-toxic water, I got my lightsaber short-circuited, tried to protect you from nothing real. And... we almost walked in on Brejik when he was doing... stuff." He nodded, allowing the five fingers to relax again. "No sign of Bastila."

"Oh?" Loraya looked pretty amused when she teased him "Are you sure she wasn't the one Brejik was doing the 'stuff' with?"

"Positive," Thress nodded. "Bastila's a Jedi who actually believes in the crap they... erm..." He stopped himself right there, feigning a sudden coughing fit. "I mean... if Brejik set her free, the only thing he'd get to lay even a finger on would be some lightning." He took a break, to defy Loraya's incredulous expression with a sly smirk. "Besides, she wasn't a Twi'lek last I knew."

Loraya gaped, fixing him with a shocked gaze. "You actually _checked_?"

"Hey," he raised his hands defensively. "A man's gotta make sure. Erm... anyway, what are we missing?"

"Well, obviously your Jedi woman isn't here," Loraya assured him.

"But you said--"

"I said," she interrupted him sharply, taking an emphatic break. "That this was _probably_ where Brejik would take her, not that she would undoubtedly be here."

"Eh, great," Thress sighed theatrically. "We just broke into someone's house for nothing."

"No! Really?" Loraya snapped, with mock-awe. "And, Winstar? This wasn't someone's house. It was Brejik's."

Thress seemed to think for a bit. "Yeah, you're right. Serves him well."

"Serves him well?!" the woman exclaimed. "Are you stupid? This man will _hound_ us if he finds out!"

"Yes, I'm stupid," Thress smirked. "But admit it – you liked the risks. This is probably the best thing you've ever done."

"Right..." Loraya grumbled as they began to walk away, doing her best not to admit he was right.


End file.
